


Wayward Slytherins

by Amanamarthiel



Series: Wayward [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusing my artistic license at times, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Battle of Hogwarts, Conflicted Draco Malfoy, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Good Slytherins, Gryffindor/Slytherin Inter-House Relationships, Hogwarts Seventh Year, Horcruxes, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, POV Draco Malfoy, Pre-Battle of Hogwarts, Slow Burn, Slytherin Family, Slytherins Being Slytherins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-06 00:59:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 154,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13400061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amanamarthiel/pseuds/Amanamarthiel
Summary: “Look at us all,” Blaise grinned, “the runaway children of Death Eaters and blood supremacists. What a charming bunch we are.”The students of Slytherin house had always stuck together, had always watched out for each other. When detested by approximately three quarters of the school, it was necessary.However, when it came down to it, family always came first. That was why Draco followed every instruction without question. That was why he never hesitated to take his father’s place in the Dark Lord’s inner circle. He was a Malfoy, and blood came before everything else.Eventually - though rather too late - Draco discovers his life is built on embellished half-truths.When he realises that life as a Death Eater is more servitude than splendour, he feels despondent.When he discovers that his mother has put her own life in danger to save his, he becomes distraught.When Harry Potter's emerald gaze continues to haunt him, he feels disgusted.When he realises family loyalty truly isn’t everything, he feels deceived.When he gains a new purpose, he grows determined.





	1. Disillusions

**Author's Note:**

> Although this story is primarily based on Draco's perspective, please note the following, which will help to explain the background to my version and why the plot diverges from canon:
> 
> When Harry, Ron and Hermione visit Xenophilius Lovegood on December 28, the events are slightly altered. Xenophilius maintains his lie that Luna is down at the steam looking for Freshwater Plimpies. While the trio are waiting, Harry notices the art on Luna's ceiling (in DH, he notices this much later, while Xenophilius is preparing diner). Suspicious of the dust coating their friend's room, they force Xenophilius to explain, and he admits the truth to them. In exchange for information regarding the Deathly Hallows, as well as their own wish to rescue their friend, the trio head to Malfoy Manor on December 29, but are apprehended by Fenrir Greyback, Scabior and the other snatchers. For this reason, Dean and Griphook do not feature in this story (as in DH, everyone was captured during the Easter holidays).
> 
> Relationship Differences: No prior or current romantic relationship between Tonks and Remus. Past Sirius/Remus (unbeknownst to other characters). Past romantic relationship between Harry and Ginny.
> 
> Also, when I say slow burn, I mean it. There's a hint of it early on but expect to read about twenty chapters before things start properly.
> 
> Check the notes preceding each chapter for any necessary warnings re: sexual content/graphic violence/torture/etc.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any associated characters.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

The third floor balcony extended from one end of the manor to the other, its west-facing location granting unobstructed glimpses of Wiltshire’s idyllic sunsets. From here, the manor’s visitors could also be treated to the breathtaking scenery of the estate itself; the lovingly manicured gardens, tranquil fountains and bountiful orchards were a great source of pride, yet another example of the Malfoys’ partiality to opulence and exclusivity.

Parties had become a thing of the past, however, with entertainment taking on an entirely new meaning in recent times. The manor’s current—and long term—guests had little interest in admiring the scenery, and little interest in trivial soirees. Their priorities were more pressing, more _ambitious_ ; one of the reasons the property’s upkeep had been neglected in recent months.

Now that it fallen into disuse, Draco had developed a tendency to spend his sleepless nights on the balcony, curled up in a velvet wingback chair positioned before the balustrades and protected from the elements with an _Impervius_. With the exception of social engagements, he hadn’t spent much time there before the war, before the Malfoys’ family home stopped being theirs and had become _His_ instead.

While Draco’s presence there had grown frequent, he’d adopted the habit much too late, a fact which filled him with deep regret. He’d taken his home’s extravagant views for granted; they’d always been there and the notion of their absence had been entirely inconceivable. Now, however, the fantastical surrounds of his childhood had become spoiled by both physical and magical neglect, the bleak and obsolete landscape a stark contrast to its former self. Despite the aching dismay, despite the desolation and this clear indication of utter _wrongness_ , Draco kept returning. And perhaps it was good that he’d never been known to frequent the balcony before—perhaps that was why no one had thought to search for him there yet, if anyone ever bothered to look for him at all.

When he was sitting outside, his back to the doors which were firmly closed behind him, Draco found he could almost pretend the life on the other side of them didn't exist. Almost—if he could manage to not think about the reasons which had led him to being there in the first place. On the nights he could successfully cease thinking about the screams and the sensations of prickling skin and the sweat and nausea produced by his own unrelenting fear, he found he could still escape in the manor views. Even though the land below held only scraps of their former prosperity, even though its bleakness was a stark signifier of everything the Malfoys had lost, it still had the power to entrance him.

Draco shivered, feeling the December frost start to bite into him. It was would be dawn soon; the warming charm he had cast over himself was beginning to fade. Wordlessly, he lifted his wand from his lap and restored it, letting himself be cradled by the gentle heat of his magic once more. He felt cold all the time nowadays and had so for months, even before the arrival of winter. Due to this, it hadn’t taken long to perfect the ability to cast the charm nonverbally. He knew he was a little overgenerous in his use of the spell, but what harm did it do to seek such small comforts? It was a small and simple reminder that there were still good things in the world when there seemed to be so little.

His eyes roved over the scenery below once more, though what he searched for he could not say.  Even though it was winter now, the grounds had never been so desolate. The gardens had always been awash with lush greenery regardless of the season, simply another symbol of the Malfoys’ status. It had been their magic which had procured such vibrancy, as it had done for generations. Their gardens were analogous to their very blood: pristine, steeped in its rich heritage and pure. But now twigs poked pathetically from the dry and ruined earth of the flowerbeds, devoid of any life. Stagnant, murky water festered in fountains which sat silent and still, surrounded by browned leaves and other debris which was gently rolled over the walkways by the faint breeze. The grass was sparse—patchy, thirsty, grey. The only remaining signs of life lay in the trees, though just barely. A few green leaves lingered in the uppermost branches, the last reminder of a dying promise.

Once, he’d taken such joy in these views, proudly showing newcomers the beauty of the estate, of his home. Once, his parents had been a constant presence in the gardens, developing a mutual passion for Herbology and landscaping after his grandfather’s death, slowly transforming the grounds into something of their own. His first kiss had occurred down there, and the shrubs and trees had witnessed a myriad of other secrets over the course of his adolescence. Even though he only an heir rather than the lord of the manor, his magic was tied into the place too, had been so even when he was still underage, woven in with the magic of all of the other Malfoys who had lived there before him. But over the last few months the magic had been progressively drawn away from the land, siphoned and redirected towards the cause their family had sworn their lives to. For how could they refuse to assist their lord, especially when the evidence of their power lay stretched out for all to see?

Draco hadn’t known it was happening, not straight away. The magic was tapped gradually, and at first the changes were so subtle he’d hardly noticed them. But then he had returned to Hogwarts and this absence had made the difference all too clear. When he was summoned home in October, the realisation had been deadening. It was then that the nature and cause of the dying land had finally become apparent. He’d pulled his mother aside and while her words had been few, the look on her face had told him enough.

He didn’t know whether the pain inside him was real or imagined but Draco had _felt_ it then, had continued to feel it, as if his own essence was being sucked away too. And now, several months later, things were so much worse. The land could give its owners no more; it could only linger silently.

 _Where have the peacocks gone?_ Draco wondered, not for the first time.

The sun was beginning to crawl over the horizon now, taunting him with the memories of a world that no longer existed for him, a world of light and warmth and life. Draco let out a shuddering sigh of resignation and pushed himself to his feet, cracking the muscles in his aching back. He’d had no sleep again but he’d allow himself a few drops of Pepper-Up Potion to rouse him once he returned to his room. His supply had grown low after going with limited sleep for so long, but it was the only kindness he could do for himself.

He turned his back on the derelict landscape, returning to his quarters to prepare for the day.

 

 

 

Draco’s attendance at Hogwarts during his seventh year had been intermittent, punctuated by regular summoning from the Dark Lord, his Aunt Bellatrix, and various others. Often it was so he could receive extra training or be rigorously tested by various members of the Dark Lord's Inner Circle. He’d aided his fellow Death Eaters a handful of times—times when greater numbers were required—being only entrusted with minor, secondary roles such as searching the properties they lay claim to for specific artefacts. He never knew the underlying motives for these searches and did not have the imprudence to ask. Sometimes he was simply called upon to be tortured, the reasons often ambiguous and flimsy. Draco knew they were typically excuses; in reality, the torture was intended to remind him exactly where his allegiance lay and exactly who it was who decided whether he lived or died. When the Dark Lord—or his minions—were eventually finished with him, Draco would be sent back through the Floo, landing battered and trembling on the floor of Severus’s office. His godfather would be awaiting his return, hands clasped behind his back and face impassive save for his thin, pursed lips.

It was never his father who called him home; the man no longer had the authority to do such a thing nor to prevent it, still being punished for his failings two years earlier. Following his blunders at the Department of Mysteries, his father's status had fallen perhaps even below Draco’s own. Losing his position at his master’s side had co-occurred with other demotions; he could no longer exert any kind of authority as the Malfoy patriarch, could no longer voice an opinion over what happened to his son. The Mark took precedence, the brand rendering Draco, first and foremost, the Dark Lord’s. Lucius was rarely permitted to even speak to his son, and when Draco was in his presence the man remained withdrawn, his eyes downcast unless ordered otherwise. When Draco was tormented before him Lucius’s cowed obedience never wavered save for a trembling in his fingers as they clutched at thin air.

In a way, Draco was thankful their interaction remained so limited; it made avoiding his father much easier. It was difficult to look upon a man so transformed, his entire being resonating with shame, hopelessness, and fear. While the stint in Azkaban had damaged his father irreparably, it was being a prisoner within his very home which had truly broken Lucius Malfoy.

Sometimes when they convened before the Dark Lord, Draco would feel a desperate longing, a need to reach and whisper something—anything—to gain the attentions and support his father might have once provided. Other times he just wanted to grip a hold of the man’s defeated shoulders and shake some life into him or strike him across the face to get some kind of reaction. He never acted on his urges; to do so would be an irreconcilable error and against every lesson Lucius had ever taught him, lessons which were etched into his very being even now. He also knew the pointlessness of such an exercise; he’d never be rewarded with the reactions he so foolishly craved. The man Draco so desperately wished would reappear just wasn’t there anymore.

Following Lucius’s arrest at the end of Draco’s fifth year, it had fallen upon Narcissa to take care of the family’s affairs. She too had transformed, adapting to a situation where her husband was no longer imposing or influential. After nearly two years of playing the role of the perfect pure-blooded trophy wife Narcissa had had to emerge from her husband’s shadow, to step forward and protect her family and the Malfoy legacy as best she could. This new version of Draco’s mother spoke with a cold, ruthless confidence, addressing her older sister more obstinately than any others would dare when dealing with such an unstable woman. While her hard-hearted mask had practically become permanent, sometimes Draco believed he could see small hints of the woman she used to be. She never touched him anymore, never spared him much in the way of warmth, but sometimes she would cast a soft glance or a tiny hint of a smile in his direction. It was enough.

To any other onlooker Narcissa would seem to be coping well enough with their change in circumstances, but as she was his mother, Draco knew better. Differences which might have been subtle to others were plain to him. He could see the frays appearing even though she was fiercely determined to adhere to the same impeccable standards as always. Already petite, she’d lost weight in recent months which had rendered her face gaunt, her cheekbones sharper, more prominent than before. Her hair had lost much of its lustre, the skin under her eyes taking on a bruised appearance that hinted at sleepless nights, and wrinkles formed in places they’d never been before. Draco didn’t question why she bothered to make the effort to remain well-presented, just as he never questioned why he continued to do the same thing himself. He knew a part of the pretence was for her, a way to remind herself that she was not yet broken, that she could still help her family claw their way back up from the dregs of the Dark Lord's ranks.

Even now his mother maintained her distance, despite the manor being practically empty. Along with the majority of the Inner Circle, the Dark Lord had absent since before his arrival. Draco assumed they were on a mission, though he could only guess; he’d not been informed of the specifics. Without them, the manor was substantially quieter, the atmosphere less capricious. Though not fraught with volatility, it was still nowhere near peaceable—Bellatrix and Wormtail still lingered on the property—but sometimes, when Draco was left to his own devices, he could nearly imagine that things were the way they used to be.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t avoid them the entire time; his presence at the manor on this occasion had been commanded by his aunt, after all. Consequently, Draco had left Hogwarts a week before the other students commenced their Christmas breaks. He was home early due to training purposes, which resulted in long, terrifying portions of the day being spent with Bellatrix as she drilled new, chilling spells into him and duelled with him in the courtyard. While a powerful witch, she was not a natural teacher, and was quick to exact her anger when mistakes were made. Draco was fortunate to be both a fast learner and an accomplished wizard, and knew that without such skills he would suffer greater punishment at her hands. Of course, he never managed to emerge from their sessions entirely unscathed; some part of him always ended up bruised, scraped or bleeding.

The woman had been a stranger to him until her escape from Azkaban two years earlier; she’d been imprisoned for most of his life. There was no familial bond between them even now they’d become acquainted; she did not see him as a nephew and beyond addressing her by the title, she wasn’t an aunt to him either. Although she referred to Narcissa as her sister readily enough and seemed to hold some semblance of affection for the other woman, Draco was simply a tool in needed of being sharpened and refined in order to be of sufficient use to the Dark Lord.

Lucius had practically taken up permanent occupancy in the drawing room in his master’s absence, returning to the same armchair by the fire day after day to stare blankly down at his clasped hands. Occasionally he would lift ragged nails to his left arm where the Dark Mark formed a black stain upon his flesh, scratching and digging into the skin as if he believed he could tear it away. Most of the time a mug of firewhisky would be positioned beside him, and although he'd take drunken gulps from time to time and snap his fingers for a house elf to replenish him, he never spoke.

When he had no other duties to perform Draco would often join his father, sitting a distance away with various booked from the library piled around him. He would watch the man from the corner of his eye, waiting to see if his father’s red-rimmed eyes would ever flick in his direction. It was the closest thing to interaction that Draco could bear, and the most he could do without his aunt punishing the both of them.

He wasn’t entirely certain why he bothered. Lucius never acknowledged him, not even subtly.

Narcissa continued to stay away from this man who resembled her husband but was anything but, disappearing into the depths of the manor for hours at a time and occupying herself with whatever she could. Her duties were different nowadays to those of old; she no longer held a schedule chockfull of visits with other pure-blooded wives to occupy herself with; their titters and gossip were reduced to echoes.

When he was not engaged in menial tasks or roaming the grounds in his rat form Wormtail would hover in the vicinity of the drawing room reeking of both desperation and an infuriating smugness for being favoured over Lucius. If it weren’t for his own tenuous standing, Draco would have chanced hexing the vile man. Instead, he bit the inside of his cheek and entertained himself with fantasies of ridding the bastard of his greasy smirk.

Bellatrix—thankfully—had better things to concern herself with, and explored their property at her own sadistic leisure, taking pleasure in searching out secrets with the knowledge that Lucius no longer had the power to prevent it and that Draco was too afraid. Eventually Narcissa would find her, ordering in a firm, clear voice for her sister to get out.

During the lingering silences spent balancing his attention between his father and his literature, Draco also spent time reflecting on his most recent history. It was strange to realise how much his mindset had changed with circumstance; once upon a time he’d held a desperate wish to become a Death Eater and uphold his father’s reputation of faithfulness and pragmatism. He had been a naïve fool back then, blinded by his ambition and a desire to prove himself. He’d idolised his father, worshipped him to the extent that Draco had been ignorant of the man’s flaws. To him, Lucius Malfoy had always been the epitome of success—strong, intelligent, charismatic, ambitious, feared and respected by friends and foe alike—and a figurative milestone to be reached. Draco hadn’t been raised with the knowledge of his father's background and his role during the First Wizarding War, but when he’d eventually been told that the most infamous wizard in modern history considered his father among his most trusted, he had yearned to follow him. In Draco’s opinion, if Lucius Malfoy supported the Dark Lord and his objectives, he had good reason.

When his father was captured and imprisoned in Azkaban and the Malfoys’ status thrust into turbulence, Draco had felt so powerless and distraught. So, when the Dark Lord’s gaze had turned to him, he had stepped forward readily to accept his fate, eager to redeem his father’s name and win his respect in the process. It had seemed a clear decision, logical, _right_. But the realities of being a Death Eater had set in quickly. Many would consider it a privilege to be in his position—to be invited into the Dark Lord's Inner Circle, and while underage, too—but Draco soon grew despondent by the reality of his new role. This was a surprise to him and—perhaps—it would have surprised his father too, if he’d known it: Draco had been given strict and meticulous instruction from an early age, allowing him to be groomed into the perfect Malfoy. But some vital yet unidentifiable part seemed to be missing, because he seemed incapable of being the perfect Death Eater. He was a pure-blood, borne from noble, powerful lines. He knew his place in the wizarding world, and his ideals aligned with the Dark Lord's cause.

But theory and practice were different things, weren’t they? He could act with coldness, detachment and cruelty—he’d done so before well enough. But there was a difference between schoolyard victimisation and the callous violence, destruction and massacre which he was now required to commit to—and wholeheartedly at that. Furthermore, the mission he’d been given to redeem his family was one which he hadn’t been strong enough to fulfil in the end, one Severus had been obliged to carry out in his stead. Draco had been too weak, too gutless to kill Dumbledore himself and, during the agonising months leading up to the event, he’d come to suspect that the Dark Lord had anticipated his failure from the outset.

The punishment he’d received had been harsh but he’d lived through it, swearing he’d never let himself fail again. But he’d lost his resolve quickly during his time in the vicinity of the Inner Circle during the summer following Dumbledore’s death. Draco had begun to doubt his father’s wisdom to serve the Dark Lord during his sixth year at Hogwarts; it wasn’t long into the summer break that his suspicions were solidified: his father had been a fool to swear fealty to the lunatic.

What had enraptured them all in the first place? The Dark Lord was terrible and great but he was also a madman. Was it simply his power and ferocity that led Bellatrix to practically salivate over her master, that had convinced Lucius to bend the knee when it went against the very core of his being? Research gave him no answers; the literature on his master was hardly objective, and the oral histories were carried too reverently, as if the Dark Lord were some kind of prophet.

There was no one Draco could ask, not without facing severe repercussion.

Despite the unpleasantness of his situation, Draco still agreed with many of the Dark Lord’s sentiments—the importance of maintaining purity in the Wizarding world and the need to remove the taint of Muggle blood and their influence from society, for example. He had been raised within a pure-blood family where he had been taught that his blood status was superior to those of mixed or Muggle-based blood. The Malfoys were of the ‘sacred twenty-eight’—those remaining families who could truly call themselves pure of blood—and a particularly noble one at that. His surname placed him on a higher platform to other magical folk. He believed the use of magic should be restricted to those who actually deserved to harness it—those of pure magical heritage—and that the presence and continued integration of Mudbloods into society unfavourably diluted the wizarding population, threatening its magical essence.

He felt less need, however, to support the man’s pursuance of immortality. At times, Draco believed this took unwarranted precedence over what should have been the main cause—protecting the fate of magic by restructuring and cleansing the wizarding world.

While Draco knew his beliefs about blood-status correlated with the cause he’d sworn to support, he wasn’t entirely certain of his lord’s favoured purging methods. Perhaps it was another sign of his weakness, of having a heart that was ashamedly soft, but he struggled to support the concept of continuously torturing and killing Mudbloods and their sympathisers, and was more revolted by the idea of raping and enslaving them than anything else. It seemed contradictory in a way, for people who prided themselves on their breeding to enjoy fucking those they deemed filthy and sub-human.

The more he learned and the more he saw, the more he found himself wondering: just how far was the Dark Lord willing to go to win this war? Just how much would Draco and his family be expected to sacrifice to stay alive? And what would come next, once Harry Potter was dead and all of his fellow scum eradicated? Would there really be an ending, a point where the Dark Lord would finally be finished, satisfied?

After months and months of the same questions swirling around in his brain, a surprising realisation had surfaced in Draco, arising more and more often despite his attempts to push it back.

He was no longer sure that he wanted the Dark Lord to win the war.

 

 

 

He made the discovery three days before Christmas.

According to Wormtail—who’d made the announcement with undisguised glee—Lucius was indisposed that morning. _Too catatonic to be of use, more like_ , thought Draco, who’d subsequently been sent into the cellar in his place to check on the couple of long-term prisoners who dwelled there. The house elves were responsible for replenishing the food and water for these captives and the ones in the deeper dungeons, but the Dark Lord still wished them to be 'visited'—or more precisely, intimidated—from time to time.

With a manic grin playing across her haunted features, Bellatrix had suggested Draco take some time to ‘play’ with the cellar prisoners, but not so roughly that he accidentally killed one of them (“It would unwise for you to displease our lord, ickle Draco!”). Draco had returned Bellatrix's veiled command with a wordless nod, his face bearing no expression, before descending into the cellar which had been repurposed as a dungeon. Inside, his heart was pounding as he wondered what he could possibly do to these people which could sufficiently satisfy his aunt without adding to the plethora of horrors that were steadily accumulating and feeding his nightmares. He had never had much to do with the prisoners after they were caught—most of the time, it occurred while he was at school—though a few times he had followed down the stairs and watched with a sickening fascination as his comrades tormented them, unable to tear his eyes away.

He wasn’t sure he had the stomach to replicate those horrors.

Draco made his way down the stairs slowly, his steps light and quiet. For some reason he loathed the idea of hearing the echo of his own footfall as he made his descent. Being silent made the situation more surreal, more bearable. He wondered who he’d find at the bottom; would these people be Muggles, parents of students, members of the Order, ministry officials? For a brief moment he wondered if they would know him, though how could they not? Apart from his shorter hair and lighter eyes, he closely resembled his father, and Draco had come down here in the man’s place.

His boots made contact with the floor and he halted there a moment, flexing his toes and tensing the icy fingers wrapped around the wand in his pocket, feeling a small comfort from the smooth hawthorn wood. He let out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, bitterly realising he was trying to comfort _himself_ because he was about to perform torture. But then again he'd always been considered self-absorbed, hadn't he?

He needed to move forward, he needed to do this. If he couldn’t do _this_ , then how would he succeed with others’ eyes on him? Eventually his Death Eater responsibilities would become more demanding—perhaps the Carrows had been willing to put him under the Imperius at school at times such as these, but that was months ago and he was expected to be able to perform _properly_. If he wanted to stay alive—something he was surprised to be considering his recent failures—he needed to be stronger, needed to possess more mettle.

But braveness was a Gryffindor thing, and wasn’t it ironic that someone as morally questionable as he was wishing for Gryffindor qualities at a time like this?

He gripped his wand tighter, seeking its comfort once more as he cast _Lumos_ and was greeted by a stretch of emptiness. The cellar had an L-shaped floorplan; from what he’d seen as an observer, the manor’s prisoners most frequently—and understandably—placed themselves against the wall around the bend, as far from the entrance as they could possibly get. Stepping forward, Draco passed the poor excuse for a latrine and wrinkled his nose at the stench, absently reminding himself to summon a house elf to empty it once he’d returned upstairs.

“Shouldn’t bother creeping; I can hear you.” A voice rasped through the gloom, startling him into almost dropping his wand. He didn’t recognise it; it sounded as if it belonged to an old man but he couldn't be entirely certain.

Draco swallowed and moved forward, feeling stupid for being so quiet, so cautious, for feeling _self-conscious_ even though these people were _their_ prisoners.

 _Theirs?_ he wondered to himself sardonically.

Well, even if he was a pathetic excuse for a Death Eater, he _was_ still one of them.

He rounded the corner, pausing at the junction to regard the two bodies which were positioned against the furthest wall. It was an old man who had spoken after all, he confirmed, eyeing the figure who now bent towards a smaller shape curled by his feet. He watched as the old man pressed a gentle hand to the back of the one on the ground, murmuring in an ear as he tried to rouse them. The person who was lying down inhaled sharply as they woke, then pushed themselves slowly upward.

The old man straightened, propping himself against the stone wall before tilting his chin and staring up at Draco. “Ah, young Mr Malfoy. I was wondering when you would be visiting us.”

Draco stared back at the old man and stepped closer, taking in the lank grey hair and filthy clothing, robes which had been reduced to tattered scraps of material. He attempted to place him, trying to imagine what he’d look like devoid of grime and malnourishment. He’d met him before—he was sure of it—but had the feeling it had been long ago. His finger absentmindedly stroked his wand as he continued to think, and the motion helped to stir the memory.

“Garrick Ollivander.” He murmured as he finally realised.

“Indeed, I am.” The elderly voice croaked in confirmation.

By now the other occupant had shuffled to sit beside the old wandmaker and the light from Draco’s wand revealed her to be a girl of a similar age to him, long blonde hair matted, and dirt smudges on her cheeks. Like Ollivander she was filthy but, apart from a few scrapes here and there, she seemed relatively unharmed. Her large silver eyes blinked sleepily up at him, a hand raised to shield against the light.

“Lovegood.” She was one of Potter’s, a kooky and troublemaking Ravenclaw from the year below them. He’d seen her at Hogwarts several times over the school year but he wasn't sure when the last time had been. It could have been months ago.

“Hello Draco,” she said softly. “You don’t look so good.”

He snorted. Obviously the girl hadn't looked in the mirror lately.

“They’ve sent him down to see to us, Luna,” Ollivander commented, not taking his eyes away from Draco. It felt as if those ghostly pale eyes were boring into him, seeing everything, knowing all of his truths.

“Ah.” Lovegood cocked her head to the side, regarding him solemnly. She didn’t look surprised or afraid; if anything, she seemed curious. “Have you done this before, Draco?”

“That’s none of your business!" he snapped, defensive. “Shut up, blood-traitor.”

Perhaps he’d never been sent alone to torment prisoners but he couldn’t have them knowing that. He knew what to do well enough—even if he’d only watched prisoners be tormented, he wasn’t a stranger when it came to inflicting pain upon others. Amycus Carrow’s Dark Arts classes and his assistance during detentions had seen to that, though they’d had to put him under the Imperius in the beginning.

He hadn’t subjected anyone to an Unforgivable outside of school, though. Would he need to subject these people to the Cruciatus Curse today in order to satisfy his aunt's bloodlust? Would it be enough?

“He has to do it,” Ollivander said softly to Lovegood. “He knows they’ll kill him if he doesn’t.”

“I’ve chosen my fate, old man,” Draco told him, gritting his teeth. “I’m here of my own will.”

For a moment Ollivander simply gazed at him expressionlessly. Then, he gave a short nod and leaned back against the wall. It was evident the man didn’t believe his words, but neither he nor Draco commented on this.

“Draco,” Lovegood murmured. “I haven’t seen you at school lately; did you leave for Christmas break early?”

It seemed strange that she’d noticed his absence, but she was likely a spy for Potter. Not anymore though. “Something like that.”

“Ah.”

“Better get to it, Mr Malfoy,” the old man spoke up. “They’ll be down here soon, wondering why you’re taking so long. And then, if you haven't done enough to satisfy them, you'll be punished along with us. That Lestrange woman is always looking for an excuse to spill blood, and I’d prefer it if that wretched woman stayed away, if you please.”

“ _Stop it_!” Draco hissed at him, “I am in charge here, not you!”

“Well, do go on then. You know you have to, after all.”

“I know, I—”

“A cutting curse, perhaps, Draco?” Lovegood interrupted thoughtfully. “I think I could handle that.”

Draco swung to stare at her, open mouthed. The Ravenclaw blinked up at him, head slightly cocked and expression impassive.

“ _What_ did you say?” he asked.

“A cutting curse?” she repeated, ignoring his stunned expression. “I think I could handle that, just... not on my face, if it’s all the same.”

Draco could hardly believe what he was hearing. Luna Lovegood was suggesting her preferred method of torture to him, suggesting curses for him to use on _her_. And she sounded so calm too, as if she was expressing her partiality for a particular swatch of fabric or something equally banal.

Ollivander sighed. “Mr Malfoy,” he said, voice surprisingly gentle, “it’s all too obvious you’re not cut out for this task. I really hope you manage to put on a better mask when your fellow Death Eaters are near. This type of hesitation will get you killed.”

“I don’t see why that is your concern,” Draco snarled. “I was chosen by the Dark Lord himself. How dare you speak to me with such disrespect!"

"Because you don't deserve respect, Mr Malfoy."

"You don’t know me at all! _Incarcerous_!”

Ropes shot around the old man, binding him. Not giving himself any more time to hesitate, Draco let his rage fuel him. He stepped backwards, aiming his wand at Lovegood, whose eyes had widened slightly at his sudden movements. “ _Diffindo_!”

Three times she was slashed—the first on her shoulder, the second on her upper arm and the third across her stomach, tearing through the fabric of her dusty pink jumper. She let out a small yelp and flinched at each long cut, then sat there gasping softly, her head lowered as she pressed her arms against her middle. Draco inhaled sharply, his eyes widening in horror as he took in the damage he’d done.

Ollivander eyed Lovegood for a few seconds, seemingly assessing his cellmate for damage, before he turned his head to regard Draco. “And what are you planning to do to me, boy?” Ollivander’s cold voice interrupted his thoughts. “I think you know what you need to do, but I don’t know if you’ve got the stomach for it!”

_Fuck you._

Draco swung towards him, furious, a small part of him wondering why this was what the old man wanted him to do, but persisting all the same because he had to, damn it. And he needed to be furious right now; he needed to _hate_. “ _Finite Incantatem_.” The ropes binding the man disappeared, allowing his body to relax slightly. Not pausing for a beat he growled, “ _Crucio_!”

Lovegood lifted her head at the words, crying out and scurrying sideways as Ollivander fell to the ground face first, his screams ringing hoarsely through the cellar as he writhed and thrashed about on the floor. Draco watched, panting as he counted in his head, and when he reached a certain number he released the man, watching as he lay trembling. He counted again, then repeated. Counted. Repeated. And then finally he stopped, his arm falling limp by his side.  

For a moment Draco simply swayed on the spot, watching as Luna gingerly turned the old onto his side. Ollivander appeared to have bitten through his lip; blood dripped down from his mouth, adding to the sweat stains on his collar. Seeing this, Draco crashed to his knees, burying his face in his hands as reality struck him and his anger fell away. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, could hear the panicked sound of Lovegood’s voice but couldn’t make out her words.

He’d crucioed Garrick Ollivander with the very wand that he had made and then sold to him six years before. The man was a genius, his family highly respected and steeped in history, their name and reputation world-renowned. And this instrument, this gift he had brought into the world, that he had _created_ for a wizard such as Draco to wield and project his magical essence, this instrument had betrayed him.

“Pliant.” A voice murmured weakly.

Draco raised his head slowly at sound of the word, fixing his eyes upon Ollivander, who had rolled onto his back to gaze blearily up at the ceiling, his head cradled in Lovegood’s lap. The Ravenclaw bent over him as she stroked his silvered hair softly, fingers light and soothing.

“Ten inches, hawthorn wood, unicorn hair core. Reasonably pliant...” The old man’s voice faded to a whisper now as his eyes closed.

Draco took a deep, shuddering breath. Was he—

“He’s sleeping.” Lovegood’s gentle voice interrupted his thoughts.

“I didn’t—”

“I know,” the girl said softly, saving him from having to say it. “You needed to mean it. He knew that, so he goaded you to make you angry, so it would be easier for you. He’s normally a very mild mannered man…”

“A fool.”

“Perhaps.” Lovegood commented thoughtfully, fixing him with those dreamy silver eyes of hers. His eyes wandered to the torn fabric of her jumper and the blood that had oozed from the cuts. “I forgive you, Draco. Just so you know.”

“ _What_?” he tore his eyes away from her injuries, staring into her wide, unblinking eyes.

“I forgive you.” The girl repeated, her voice calm and steady.

He couldn’t believe the two of them. Weren’t they both Ravenclaws? Yet Ollivander had taunted and pushed him, something most would consider foolish but some would also see as brave. Despite what the man had implied—that torture at Draco's hand was much preferable to that of Bellatrix—he could see little reason for the old wandmaker to do such a thing. And Lovegood's calm acceptance of her fate… both of their actions seemed positively Gryffindor-like. First they’d allowed him—encouraged him, even—to injure them, and now Lovegood was telling him he was _forgiven_?

Draco rose to his feet, legs aching and cold after collapsing to the ground. He swallowed back the feelings of shame and other emotions he didn't want to think about right now and pointed his wand at the blonde girl one last time. “ _Tergeo_ ,” he murmured, and watched as the blood cleared from her wounds. He fumbled in the pocket of his blazer jacket, emerging with a small bag of dittany which he tossed at Lovegood, landing by her feet. “In case you need it.” He gestured helplessly at Ollivander. “The tremors—I can’t…” There was nothing he could do about those.

He spun on his heel then, turning his back on the two prisoners as he made his way out of the cellar as quickly as he could. He hoped he had done enough to satisfy Bellatrix because he wasn’t sure he could handle any more, and he wasn’t going to stay to find out.

Draco made his way back up to the third floor. It wasn’t until he had reached the balcony and cast a silencing spell around him that he allowed the tears to fall.

 

 

 

It was the fourth day after Christmas when the course of Draco’s life changed irrevocably.


	2. Captivis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 2 and 3 detail the events that occur at Malfoy Manor. Although the events here occur in December rather than April, some of the character dialogue is pulled from the original story, and other parts are paraphrased.

Christmases at Malfoy Manor were normally memorable affairs, the grounds decorated extravagantly and the house filled with important guests. This year, however, the day had passed without ceremony, leaving Draco in a state of gloom as he tried to avoid all thoughts of past years spent in blissful ignorance.

The 29th of December started the same as the days preceding it. The three Malfoys, along with Bellatrix and Wormtail, gathered in the dining room for their usual strained breakfast.

Wormtail read the relevant articles of the _Daily Prophet_ aloud with fervour through nibbles of pastry. Bellatrix, who, in the Dark Lord’s absence had claimed the place at the head of the table with relish, was in a surprisingly good mood that morning. For once, she tolerated the rat-man’s smarminess, cackling through a mouthful of omelette as she listened, and hurrying him along impatiently when particular parts bored her.

Food was the one thing at the manor which had stayed the same; unfortunately, nowadays the Malfoys rarely had the stomach to indulge in it. Lucius stared blankly down at the tablecloth as he took intermittent slurps of black coffee, his plate ignored and empty despite the assortment of pastries and fruit the house elves had piled on the table. Narcissa sat silent and straight-backed in her chair, poised as always, her thoughts masked as she slowly stirred her tea and took small sips. She didn’t eat either, but that wasn’t anything unusual—the woman had the appetite of a bird nowadays. Draco picked mournfully at his croissant and wished he was elsewhere.

Bellatrix Lestrange was a dangerous woman at the best of times. When she was in a bad mood, she was lethal; when she was in a good one, she was even worse. So Draco was wary when he followed behind as she marched out to the courtyard, but he schooled his features so his expression gave the impression of calm composure. That morning they practiced duelling with Bellatrix attempting to throw him off track by using Legilimency.

Her strategy proved to be a challenge for Draco, despite considering himself reasonably adept at Occlumency. Just as he’d been trained, Draco ensured his shields were always up nowadays, and for that reason, basic Occlumency didn’t put his magic under particular strain. Apart from it being good practice, it was also an essentiality, what with his growing mistrust of the Dark Lord’s priorities. If such disloyalties happened to be uncovered, he would be in serious—perhaps fatal—trouble.

However, the difficulty of defending against Bellatrix's attempts to Legilimize him _and_ duelling her became evident at once. Draco struggled to efficiently delegate his magic, needing to direct it towards keeping his shields intact, defending against his aunt’s advances, and casting his own attacks. His blocking abilities were significantly weakened when he had to direct a greater portion of his magical energy towards Occluding—and he could hardly prioritise attacking her at all. The woman had much more experience than he and refused to go easy on him, hitting him with curses which he struggled to block and often had to simply dodge to avoid.

It was moments like these which asserted the truth that Bellatrix held no sentiments when it came to Draco. To her, he was indeed just another weapon.

By midday the lesson was finally over and Draco was permitted to return, limping and bruised, to his own quarters. Upon arrival he summoned a house elf to prepare him a bath. He performed the necessary healing spells to fix the more major injuries which he’d accumulated, too overcome with exhaustion to concern himself with the superficial ones. His potion reserves were dwindling— Severus had become more prudent with ingredients than ever before and approaching Slughorn was a useless endeavour—but there was dittany left and his pot of bruise salve was still half full; it’d be used sparingly until he could coax more from his godfather, but it would help soothe him somewhat.

Draco lowered himself into the lemongrass perfumed water, allowing it to lap at his aching muscles. He closed his eyes, letting himself be wrapped in the scents and warmth permeating the bathroom.

He must have fallen asleep, because the next time his eyes opened, the sun was setting.

Realising he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, Draco summoned a house elf to his room again, forcing himself to have a light supper. Like his mother, he didn’t have much of an appetite these days, but he knew it was important to maintain adequate nutrition. Surviving required more than mental fortitude, after all. The weaker his body, the harder he would find it to resist Bellatrix and counter her spells, and the more he would be punished.

After swallowing down as much food as he could bear—a paltry amount compared to when he’d been fifteen and unburdened—he made his way to the drawing room and found his father in his usual chair before the fire.

Draco took in the dishevelled appearance with disappointment, the robes which looked days old, the matted hair and hazy, blood-shot eyes. The man still hadn’t shaved either, a stark contrast to the Lucius Malfoy of old who had ensured his immaculate appearance was threatened by nary a shadow of stubble. Of course, before he’d relied heavily on shaving charms, and now he was reduced to the more primitive Muggle methods. Both Draco and Narcissa had been staunchly prohibited from assisting the Malfoy patriarch.

Draco sank into the adjacent chair, watching a moment longer in the hopes of receiving some form of recognition. His father seemed to barely notice his arrival, however, simply raising his glass of whisky to his lips once more. If Draco had been more exposed to the Muggle world, he might have called these actions robotic.

Averting his eyes, he reached down to grab the tome from the top of the pile stacked by his feet. This particular text provided a general overview of healing magic, a topic which had only been skimmed over at Hogwarts. They’d learned a bit over the years in Defence Against the Dark Arts, Potions and Herbology, and he’d had some incidental exposure through Quidditch and following altercations with Gryffindors, but he knew nowhere near enough for his liking. He’d have a role to play in the battles which were inevitably looming, and the ability to confidently assess and counteract damage to his person would be essential. It was against his nature to wholly entrust his life to someone else, even in the face of mortal injury.

The other books in the pile covered a variety of topics. Some had been assigned to him either by his mother or Corban Yaxley with the purpose of moulding him into a more valuable member of the Dark Lord’s arsenal. However most of them, including this one, had been self-selected. Although he didn’t have Granger’s bookworm reputation he had always been a prolific reader, his interests wide-ranging and seemingly limitless. Perhaps in another life he’d have been a Ravenclaw.

He’d been immersed in the tome for about an hour when his attention was sparked by the sound of his mother’s voice. It echoed through to the drawing room, cold and imperious, the tone she used when she needed to emphasise her authority. Curious and alert, Draco snapped the book closed and placed it back atop the pile, listening intently all the while. He knew Bellatrix had recently retired to her personal quarters, and that Wormtail was in the library, continuing with research for the Dark Lord. Both locations lay in the opposite direction to the manor’s formal entrance, where his mother’s voice seemed to be coming from. That meant there must be newcomers.

Lucius had also heard Narcissa, and it was almost as if he held some insight into what was coming that Draco did not, for his eyes suddenly grew sharp and clear and his normally slackened jaw tightened. Draco watched in near-awe as the glass of whisky was abandoned on a side table and the Malfoy patriarch rose from his seat, his movements smooth and expectant. The transformation was remarkable with his spine straight and his eyes focussing straight ahead for once rather turned to the ground. He was still an unshaven mess but he looked more like himself than he had since returning from Azkaban.

Draco remained confused but kept his feelings on the inside, following his father’s lead as if it was nothing unusual. Standing alongside Lucius, Draco listened to the oncoming approach of his mother. The echo of her shoes was accompanied by an arrhythmic clumping and shuffling, an indication that a group was with her. Their approach sounded slow, awkward. Had more prisoners arrived, perhaps?

The werewolf came into view first. Draco recognised Greyback immediately but even if his eyes were closed he’d have known it was him who joined them, for his offensive stench—sweat, blood, death—permeated the room immediately. Three Snatchers followed behind him— _likely contributing to the stench_ , Draco thought with a sneer—each managing a prisoner. Narcissa entered at the rear, positioning herself on the side of the room, her lips pursed in the silent disapproval she was warranted for such a late interruption.

Allowing his eyes to rove over the band of newcomers, Draco almost gaped. Of course, no such inanity occurred; he’d been taught better than that.

“What is this?” his father spoke then, his voice low, silky and dangerous. It wasn’t the gravelly murmur Draco had become accustomed to; in this moment, the man almost sounded like the Lucius of his childhood: authoritative and terrifying.

“They say they’ve captured Potter,” Narcissa responded coolly as she turned in his direction. Her eyes didn’t quite meet her husband’s however, and any shock she might have felt at his unexpected forthrightness was concealed. Her eyes flicked to her son. “Draco, come here.”

Draco moved slowly forward, trying to maintain his neutral expression as he joined his mother. He’d already recognised Granger and Weasley easily enough, so he ignored them in favour of subtly considering the third. Greyback had wrenched the boy away from the Snatcher who had been holding him and wrestled him to the front of the ensemble.

Sheer logic would dictate this one was Potter.

“Well, boy?” the werewolf growled at Draco, who stiffened, longing to rebuke the beast for addressing _him_ in such a fashion.

He remained silent instead, taking his time to consider the prisoner who’d been twisted and forced to face him. His face was distorted and swollen, pink and unnatural. Draco deduced Potter –or whoever it was—had been the recipient of a nasty spell, quite possibly a Stinging Jinx. The raven hair was the same colour as Potter’s unruly mop, but it was much longer than what the Gryffindor had favoured at school. All in all, if this truly was Potter, someone had attempted to disguise his appearance, and hastily.

“Well, Draco? Is it? Is it Harry Potter?” From behind him, he could hear the sheer desperation and impatience in his father’s voice, and with that, the hope the man had come back into himself fleeted. The old Lucius would never have allowed himself to sound so pathetic before his lessers.

Draco flicked his gaze over the captive once more, noticing the other boy seemed desperate to avoid eye contact. Draco didn’t particularly want to look at him either, didn’t want to be in this position at all. Why did this have to happen now instead of during term when he would have been back at school? Why did this have to fall on him?

“I can’t—I can’t be sure,” he said finally.

His father’s tone was urgent, almost bordering on panic as he pressed. “But look at him carefully, look! Move closer!”

Reluctantly, Draco moved away from his mother and towards Greyback and the captive then heard his father come up behind him, flinching in surprise as he grasped a hold of Draco’s hand and pulled him forward impatiently. It had been months since they’d last touched.

“Draco, if it’s him, then we can hand him over to the Dark Lord, and then everything will be forgi—”

“Mr Malfoy, I do hope you aren’t forgetting something,” Greyback interrupted, the threat clear in his voice as his foul breath crested over them.

“Of course not,” Lucius hastened, placing his hands on Draco’s shoulders and adjusting him so he stood directly before the captive. “Now, _look_ at him, Draco. Look carefully. Is it him?”

Draco could still feel his father’s hands clasping his shoulders, and was unable to decide whether he relished or reviled the contact. He felt the old familiar sensation of wishing to please the man, and it warred with the discomfort of being assigned this sudden responsibility. Once again, he willed himself to be calm, then finally fixed his eyes on the boy properly. He took in the features made clearer by the closer proximity. There was a scar on his forehead though it wasn’t the lightning bolt Harry Potter was famous for. The skin was twisted and looked almost melted, as if something blisteringly hot had been pressed against the flesh and held there. But through the facial swelling he could see emerald green eyes looking back at him and _those_ were familiar, those had fixed upon his before.  So yes, despite the disfigurations, there was no longer any doubt in Draco’s mind that Greyback was not mistaken. But…

“I don’t know,” he lied, and took a quick step to the side, moving out of his father’s grasp.

He turned himself away from the scene, forcing himself to return to his armchair by the fire where hopefully he could be left alone and forgotten. He knew the weight of the decision before him, knew that revealing Potter’s identity could mean the end of the war and spell the Dark Lord’s victory. But that wasn't exactly what he wanted, was it? If Potter died, then the future—Draco's future—was set. He cursed the internal conflict he was experiencing.

Lucius hovered by the group, continuing to scrutinise the boy. “What happened to him?” he demanded, glaring suspiciously at the three Snatchers. “Did one of you cast a Stinging Jinx on him?”

“Looked like that when we caught him, sir,” one of them spoke up in a tone of voice which implied they were hardly that stupid.

Lucius sighed in frustration, twisting a lock of lank blonde hair around his finger as he continued to stare at the prisoner thoughtfully.

“We’ll have to wait,” Narcissa announced, addressing the room. “The Dark Lord cannot be summoned until we are certain this is Potter. If we are mistaken, if his time has been wasted, we shall all suffer greatly.”

“Yes, yes.” The blonde man dragged a hand through his hair restlessly then seemed to remember there were two other prisoners in the room. He stalked over to them, inspecting them with narrowed eyes. “Well this one is definitely a Weasley,” Lucius declared, thrusting a finger at the redhead, whose blue eyes widened at the accusation, his freckled skin paling visibly. “Is it the one from your year, Draco?”

From his chair, Draco swallowed. “It… is possible.”

Nodding to himself, Lucius turned his gaze to Granger, blue eyes transfixed as he tried to place her. He opened his mouth to comment.

“Cissy!”

Bellatrix flounced into the room then ground to a halt, fixing her hooded eyes on the haphazardly assembled crowd. Slowly her eyes brightened, and her lips curved in a knowing grin.

“New guests,” she murmured silkily, drawing her wand and stroking it between her fingers as she moved sleekly through the room. She stopped before the unidentified disfigured prisoner, squinting at him questioningly.

“This one is a Weasley,” Lucius jerked his head at the redhead as he interrupted whatever thoughts she had been piecing together. His voice sounded hoarser now, more tentative in the presence of his sister-in-law.

Bellatrix paid no attention to her brother-in-law’s comment about Weasley, gliding past the ginger and stopping beside Lucius—who was still near Granger—instead. Draco’s father flinched noticeably at her arrival but, seeing the woman’s attention was on the prisoner rather than him he recovered quickly, turning his head to also regard the girl.

“It’s the Mudblood, isn’t it?” she said quietly. “It’s Potter’s little Mudblood whore.”

“ _Yes_ … So the other one _must_ be Potter,” Lucius concluded in a whisper, and Bellatrix whirled around, advancing on Greyback and Potter. Head cocked, she peered at him, growing wide-eyed and gleeful.

“We’ve got Potter!” Bellatrix shrieked, turning to fix the three Malfoys with those manic eyes. “The Dark Lord must be informed at once!” and with that, she dragged up the black laced sleeve of her robe, revealing her Dark Mark.

“No!” cried Lucius, lunging forward to grasp a hold of her wrist.

“You dare touch _me_ , Malfoy?” she hissed, rocking back as if to slap the man.

“ _I_ was going to summon the Dark Lord. The boy is on Malfoy grounds!”

Bellatrix let out a bark of cold laughter. “Malfoy grounds?” the woman spat, “these _were_ your grounds, Lucius. You have no claim to the boy now.”

“Well I’m thinking if there’s a reward, _we’ll_ be earning that, seeing as we’s the ones who caught ‘em, right boys?” Greyback growled as he entered the dispute, resulting in resounding shouts of agreement from the Snatchers.

“A reward?” Bellatrix’s voice was low and dangerous as she whirled around to glare at Greyback and his party, her arm twisting in Lucius’s grasp. “You’ll have your—” She paused, her eyes taking in the ruby-encrusted sword grasped in one of the Snatchers’ filthy hands. “Where did you get that?” she snarled, ripping out of Lucius’s grip.

Bellatrix stomped forward, sparks flying from the tip of her wand as she advanced on the cluster of Snatchers. Lucius, taking advantage of her distraction, pulled up the sleeve of his own robes. Draco, seeing what his father was about to do, lunged from his armchair, grabbing the man’s wrist in a gesture which mirrored the way he himself had seized Bellatrix’s.

His father looked to him, his expression a mixture of surprise, fear and fury.

“Wait.” Draco told him softly, pressing down gently with his fingers for emphasis.

“Draco, you don’t understand,” Lucius pleaded, his tone sending shivers down Draco’s spine; he’d only ever heard him plead like that before the Dark Lord. “We _need_ this.”

“ _Wait_ ,” Draco repeated, keeping his grip firm.

Eventually Lucius appeared to see reason, or perhaps his will had simply weakened; his shoulders slumped in defeat and he nodded. Seeing this reaction from a man who had once seemed so ambitious, so determined, and so _terrifying_ to Draco—who had shown glimpses of his old self just minutes before—made it difficult for him to keep his emotions in check. But he did. He had to, because his father could not.

After guiding Lucius back to his armchair, Draco returned to the scene. By this point the sword was in Bellatrix’s grasp and the Snatchers lay crumpled on the floor, victims of her wrath. Only Greyback remained standing, still holding onto Potter (for surely it _had_ to be Potter) but the creature had grown submissive and fearful now. Granger and Weasley stood awkwardly beside the fallen Snatchers, still bound and helpless. Their eyes were fixed warily upon Bellatrix, the room in unspoken agreement that there was a madwoman in their midst.

“I will be gaining answers tonight!” she announced shrilly, whirling to acknowledge them all as she spoke. “And when I am finished my… interrogations… the Dark Lord will be summoned. Greyback, take these traitors down to the cellar with the other filth. Draco, accompany them. Oh…” She paused, smiling wickedly as she turned and traced a finger down Granger’s trembling, tearstained cheek. “But not _you_ , little Mudblood. You can stay. The two of us need to get… reacquainted.”

“NO!” Weasley shouted, fighting against his restraints as he made an attempt to lunge in front of the girl. “Take _me_ , not her! Take m—”

“ _Langlock_! _Colloshoo_!” Bellatrix hissed, and Weasley’s protests were replaced by nonverbal sounds as his tongue became affixed to the roof of his mouth. His feet glued to the ground, the boy’s wriggling subsided and he simply stood there, glowering. “Take them, Draco.”

He stepped forward then, holding his wand before him, a silent warning. He saw Potter glance in his direction before promptly tearing his eyes away, staring at a space just past Draco’s shoulder instead.

“You will follow me,” he said to the two boys, his voice low and threatening, “and if you try anything, _anything_ , you will regret it.”

There was no reply, but the hatred in their eyes was clear. It didn’t faze Draco; such expressions were hardly unfamiliar to him. Greyback thrust the dark-haired boy in his direction and the boy stumbled towards him. Draco half-turned to lead them out the door, his wand trained on Potter all the while. He followed Draco down the hall towards the cellar and Weasley came close behind, levitated with the aid of a Hover Charm. At the rear, Greyback roughly pair of prisoners along.

 

* * *

 

   _  
“We’ve got Potter,” Bellatrix shrieked, “The Dark Lord must be informed at once!”_

It was at this point that Narcissa managed to slip out of the drawing room unnoticed, and make her way silently down the darkened hall.

If the disfigured prisoner truly was Harry Potter then they’d be in good standing with the Dark Lord once more; if it was someone else, they were all as good as dead. The risk of death had become too great; her contingency plan needed to be established, and it needed to happen now.

She reached the door to a sealed room which no one had entered for many years. A few days ago she had caught her older sister attempting to get inside and had stood there for a few minutes, a Disillusionment Charm cast over herself as she watched the other woman’s attempts. Bellatrix had alternated between hissing at the door, casting an impressive array of spells and placing her palms against it. Her efforts had ultimately failed however, and eventually she had stalked away in pursuit of other secrets. Narcissa wasn’t exceptionally worried about her sister’s preoccupation; she knew it was unlikely that Bellatrix had known the purpose of the room or suspected it to be of any particular importance; the woman had attempted to access each and every room she discovered in her prying.

Bellatrix and Lucius had always shared a cool relationship, something which had become particularly evident during the years between his courting of Narcissa and the two starting their marriage. Bellatrix had grudgingly accepted the arrangement between the Black and Malfoy families despite it causing her to lose control over a sister. However, her acquiescence was more due to the other family's blood status and social standing than any of Lucius Malfoy's own personal qualities. The woman had been hard-pressed to relinquish her power over her youngest sister, particularly after Andromeda had been disowned by the family. Bellatrix had been loath to accept the fact that Lucius's role as husband took precedence over her own, despite the fact she was already wed to Rodolphus and therefore should have had a deeper understanding of how marriages worked.

Lucius, who had known the Black sisters from childhood, had always looked upon Bellatrix with distaste. Although classically beautiful in her youth, she was unrefined and her ill grace belied her breeding. He had been thankful at first that he’d been paired with the middle sister Andromeda, who, unlike her older contemporary, was widely admired for her elegance and charismatic disposition. But then the trouble with Andromeda had occurred and the arrangement between the two families had fallen through. It hadn’t been long before restitution was made, however, and Lucius had been rematched with the beautiful and subdued Narcissa. He had spoken of this many a time, informing his wife at length of how fortunate it was that Andromeda's defects—her weak nature and penchant for Mudbloods—had revealed themselves before his commitment had been officially sealed, and before his children could be tainted with such nonsense.

Bellatrix had always viewed herself as the Dark Lord's most loyal and devoted follower, particularly over Lucius Malfoy, who, in her opinion, had shown his true colours by prioritising his own reputation over his lord’s after the First Wizarding War. Now that her brother-in-law's status in the eyes of their lord had been reduced to little more than chattel, Bellatrix's more favoured position was all too clear. Narcissa knew that in her sister’s opinion, it was proof that Lucius did not warrant her respect, and since there had never been any camaraderie between them there was nothing to stop her from taking advantage of him and making a show of it in the process. Even if there had been some fight left in him, there was little her husband could do without endangering them—he had no wand and no leverage.

Narcissa was the only one who could intervene on behalf of her family, the only one who could demand some semblance of respect as she firmly reminded Bellatrix that this was _her_ home, her legacy to protect, not just her husband's. How long the woman would continue to listen to her, however, she did not know.

Narcissa placed her hand upon the cool wood of the door, allowing it to recognise her magical signature before she murmured the password and stepped inside the room, surveying its interior with a nostalgic eye. The stasis charm was still in effect; the bedroom looked exactly the same as it had almost twenty years ago, its furnishings elegant and feminine, the decor selected by Lucius’s mother. The last time she had slept here she had been Narcissa Black, still engaged. Propriety had ensured she and Lucius maintain separate rooms until they were wed. A fond smile crept upon her face as she remembered just how little that rule had been obeyed on their part, how he had visited her each night and then crept back to his own room, sated, at the crack of dawn.

She shook her head slightly and her smile faded as she brought herself back to reality. There was no use in reminiscing. That Lucius was only a memory now.

Narcissa made her way to an ornate cherry wardrobe which stood against the far wall, stroking her index finger over its elegantly twisted design before pulling the doors open. She breathed a sigh of relief as her eyes roamed its floor and located a smooth ebony box engraved with the initials NB. She had remembered the box’s existence a few weeks ago but it had been so long since she’d last seen it; she’d been worried she’d moved it somewhere else over the years and forgotten. She bent down and smoothly scooped up the box and moved to the bed with it cradled in her arms. She sat down gently, stroking her index finger across the ebony surface while softly murmuring the appropriate incantation. Although it had been so long ago she was fortunate to remember it perfectly. She heard a click and then the lid of the box lifted slowly. Narcissa gently pushed it fully open to reveal a necklace of white gold, its diamond amulet encrusted with a large black one at the centre. It was nestled in a bed of black silk and its accompanying note was still tucked underneath. Cautiously, she pinched the corner of the parchment and pulled it out, whispering the one word to herself.

_Forgiven._

Narcissa placed the note in her lap as she scooped out the contents of the box. She wrapped the necklace up in the silk, carefully ensuring her fingers did not dance over its surface. It was tucked gently into the pocket of her robes, the note slipped back inside the box. Dropping the lid closed once more, Narcissa returned it to the wardrobe then made her way out of the room.

She stopped in the doorway to give the room one final glance, a part of her knowing she would likely never set eyes upon it again. With a final decisive nod, she stepped back, closing and resealing the door. She had to hurry back before her absence was noticed.

 

* * *

 

 

The four of them reached the cellar, Draco listening as Greyback continued to taunt the two boys—Weasley in particular—loudly voicing his intentions to sup upon Granger and claim her as his own. While the dark-haired boy had remained surprisingly silent the entire time, Weasley had not been able to hide his rage; even without the ability to talk his growling had made his feelings all too clear.

After disarming the barrier Draco stepped aside and the two boys stumbled unceremoniously down the stairs and into the cellar, Greyback driving them on with jerky thrusts of his wand. The Slytherin curtly informed the werewolf that his services were no longer required, his gaze cool and unblinking even as Greyback leered and the werewolf’s putrid reek wafted over him. For a moment he expected some kind of confrontation to occur but fortunately Greyback backed down, swinging around abruptly. A final threat was yelled into the cellar and then the creature retreated, leaving Draco to erect the wards once more.

Once Greyback had rounded the corner Draco stepped quietly into the cellar, stopping halfway down the stairs. He eyed the two boys who glared up at him from the dusty floor before pointing his wand at Weasley. Potter tried to leap in front of the redhead, but his movements were too slow to be of use.

 _Always trying to be the bloody hero_ , Draco thought disdainfully.

“ _Finite Incantatem_.” Draco released the spell on Weasley’s tongue and feet, relishing the way the dark-haired boy’s mouth gaped in surprise. Weasley however, remained indignant, eternally ill-mannered and ungrateful, and Draco felt particularly smug as he asked, “Better now?”

“Fuck you, Malfoy,” Weasley snarled as his friend blocked his attempts to lunge up the stairs. Surprisingly, the dark-haired boy’s intervention seemed to sedate Weasley somewhat; though he still looked furious, he didn’t try to push past.

“Smart decision, Potter,” Draco said softly. “Attempting to attack me would be… unwise.”

He noticed neither of them bothered to deny Potter’s identity, a foolish choice on their part if they were hoping to maintain their lie; Greyback had been growling about ‘Vernon Dudley’—a ridiculous alias on Potter’s part.

Potter simply glared up at him—or at least that was what it looked like he was doing; it was difficult to know for sure when his face was so swollen. Staring at him for a moment, Draco decided Potter could continue looking that way a little longer.

He backed up the rest of the stairs, forcing himself to move slowly and ignore the furious ricocheting of his heart inside his chest. Even if he was the only one armed with a wand, even if he knew how to protect himself, he had felt the terror rising within him while looked down on the two boys who’d stared up at him with expressions of utter abhorrence. If they still had their wands he was sure they would attempt to annihilate him without a second thought. He reached the top and recast the wards, securing the barrier once more.

“YOU COWARD!” he heard Weasley yell up at him.

By then, he’d already turned away.


	3. Wards and Whispers

Granger started to scream then, her shrill cries ringing clearly down the hall. The sound of Weasley thundering up the stairs followed almost immediately, the boy howling her name and hissing for the Slytherin to let them out. Draco paid no heed to his threats, however, and resolutely forced himself to make his way back towards the drawing room and confront the dreadful sound.

Once he arrived, Draco wished there’d been reason for him to linger in the cellar longer. For, although Granger’s screams had guided him the entire way back, even his own imaginings of what Bellatrix was likely doing hadn’t sufficiently prepared him for the sight.

The chairs had all been pushed against the walls, leaving ample space for his aunt to pursue her interests. The room was brighter than it had been when Draco had left it, no longer simply lit by the glow from the fireplace but almost clinically bright. Thin-lipped and haughty, Lucius remained in his regular chair as he watched the scene unfold; Narcissa hovered near him, expression blank, her gaze hovering a few inches above her sister's bent head. During Draco’s absence Wormtail had joined the gathering; the unpleasant little man grinned toothily at the spectacle from the opposite side of the room to the Malfoys, while Greyback occupied Draco’s own chair. Draco’s nose wrinkled slightly at the idea of the beast’s rank scent soaking into the fabric.

The hardwood floor had been purged of its ornate rugs, and now Granger lay spreadeagled in the room’s centre, her limbs magically bound to the ground. From the sight of her, Draco guessed the Cruciatus Curse had been the cause of most of her screams, and that she’d likely been subjected to it a number of times already. Bellatrix had seemingly allowed the Gryffindor a brief reprieve, her gleeful eyes taking in the girl’s face, screwed up in pain and anguish as she gasped back tearful breaths and struggled to control her tremors.

Draco could hardly count the number of times he’d seen the Cruciatus inflicted before now, but exposure had done nothing to desensitise him to the sight. There was a reason it was called an Unforgivable. Seeing and hearing it still made him feel sick and terrified because he knew exactly how it felt to be the one writhing on the floor. He also knew what it was like to wield the wand, to be the caster, to summon the magic and hatred needed to perform it… though he’d never done so _joyfully_ , not like Bellatrix, not like the Carrows. Not like his father, once upon a time.

He and Granger had history. Draco truly loathed the bitch, and not just because she _didn’t belong_ in his world, but also because she was a self-righteous know-it-all who’d continued to outperform him despite his efforts—something his father had never let him forget. That the bitch had had the audacity to punch him in the face once upon a time didn’t help matters.

However, although she and the rest of her sodding Golden Trio had been his enemies for years, although his dislike for the Mudblood was deep-rooted and irrefutable, all of that was reduced to nothing the moment Draco saw her bound to the floor. No matter how he felt about her heritage or her personality, he wasn’t so vile as to wish this particular fate upon her, not at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange. And especially not at the hands of a Bellatrix Lestrange who believed herself to have been personally wronged.

 

Draco wavered in the doorway for a moment as he took in the scene and calmed the revulsion from his features before forcing his feet to move. He made his way to where his mother and father watched, sticking close to the perimeter of the room and as far from Bellatrix and Granger as he could in the hope his return would remain unnoticed by her. His parents did not react as he drew near but Greyback’s lupine eyes flicked to his knowingly, lips curling in a cruel smirk.

If the Dark Lord were present Draco suspected his father would be kneeling now, pushing his face into the floor as he begged for the privilege of torturing Granger. Seeing his father—seeing a  _Malfoy_ —in such a position made Draco feel filthy, furious and ashamed, but for some reason it seemed par for the course for Lucius. Their lord was absent, however, and there was no point in Lucius asking his sister-in-law for anything. In addition to the damage it would do to his already shattered pride, Bellatrix would never dream of granting him such allowances, no matter how much he begged her. This was her own business.

His aunt looked positively manic, her eyes wide and dark in her gaunt face as she hovered over the girl, her tongue tracing over the top row of teeth in her grinning mouth. She threw up her arm with a snap and hit Granger with the Cruciatus again, her cackling a chilling accompaniment to the bloodcurdling screams which permeated the room once more. Then, quite unexpectedly, she released the curse and rocked back on her heels, her face contorting into an expression of disgust.

"This stupid girl has _pissed_ on your floor, Cissy, the filthy animal!" Her voice was a hysteric snarl. "You're really getting on my nerves, Mudblood, befouling this house, lying to _me_ —”

“PLEASE!” The girl sobbed. “I told you the _truth_! I did!”

“You lie!” Bellatrix hissed. "You got into my vault, and now you need to learn a lesson." She bent her face closer to Granger. "You need to be reminded of your _place_!"

She shuffled herself so she was leaning over Granger's arm then hiked the sleeve of the girl’s shirt past her elbow. Granger wailed, not so much at what Bellatrix had just done but in anticipation of what was to come.

Draco inhaled sharply as he saw Bellatrix pull the knife from her belt. He knew what it could do; she’d marked him with it before. She turned it slowly in her hand, allowing it to settle in her grip. He felt sick, biting the inside of his cheek as the blade caught the light. That was when Granger noticed it too, her voice growing even more frantic in her heightened panic. She threw her head and shoulders from side to side in a useless attempt to rip herself from the floor.

“ _No_! We FOUND it—we did, we—” and then her words subsided into bloodcurdling screams again as the knife made contact with skin, the woman bending lower as she twisted the point of her cursed blade into the flesh of the girl’s bare forearm.

Draco tried to stop himself from shaking as he stood there listening to Granger’s screams. He lowered his eyes to his boots, his teeth biting so hard into his flesh now that he could taste the blood welling in his mouth. He needed to stay in control but he was failing and he knew it; he knew his terror was obvious, that Greyback could quite possibly _smell_ it on him, and that if Bellatrix noticed, if she saw how _weak_ he truly was, she’d find a way to exploit it right then and there. He glanced at his parents and his mother’s blue eyes flicked to his; a warning—she’d seen his reaction. Draco closed his eyes and tried to think of Quidditch, of the feeling of flying and cold air and sunshine, of weaving and diving and the exhilaration which made him feel so alive. He thought about the past, when life had been simpler, when he hadn’t been a Death Eater, just a Seeker… but Potter had been there too. Potter, Weasley… Granger. And with that his thoughts were brought straight back to the present.

It felt as if they’d been standing there for hours even though it had only been a few minutes, and Draco had no idea how much longer he could fight the urge to sink to the ground and let his terror claim him.

Why couldn’t it just stop?

“There we are!” Bellatrix finally announced brightly. “Much better.”

Draco’s eyes snapped open. Bellatrix had risen to her feet and Granger lay there below her, so quiet and motionless now, her eyes glazed and only just slightly open as they stared off to the side. She looked barely conscious, her forearm a bloody mess; Bellatrix had carved a word into her skin. He couldn’t see the entirety but it started with an ‘M’… oh.

“Revolting,” Bellatrix said in disgust, nudging at the girl with the toe of her boot. “Your filth is all over my knife, you wretched Mudblood, but at least you’ll be able to remember what you are now.” She bent back over Granger—who didn’t even flinch, didn’t react at all—and wiped her blade on the girl’s cheek and down the front of her shirt, then tutted and stepped away.

 

 

 

Wormtail took Granger down to the cellar after Bellatrix had hurt the girl enough to please her; it turned out that gouging the word 'Mudblood' into Granger's arm hadn't been the full extent of her plans. The girl had been pulled to her feet, and, after only managing to stand shakily a few seconds before her trembling legs had collapsed beneath her, had been more or less dragged from the drawing room.

Bellatrix informed the Malfoys, Greyback and Wormtail that she would be summoning The Dark Lord, but not yet. The woman gave no indication as to her particular reasons for delaying, nor what would occur in the interim, and none dared to question her, especially not after witnessing her recent performance. After eyeing them all closely as if to check for signs of dissent, she swirled from the room and retired to her quarters and Greyback, Wormtail and his parents followed suit without a single word exchanged between them. The Snatchers had long since Disapparated.

Draco lingered in the drawing room, averting his eyes from the stains on the floor—stains which Bellatrix had refused to have cleaned—as he put out the fire. For an interminable amount of time he sat by the dying embers, allowing the heat to soak into his eternally chilled bones. Eventually he could no longer tolerate the ache in his legs and stood to leave but, instead of returning to his quarters, he made his way back to the cellar.

Draco knew it was sheer idiocy which drew him there, but even so, he couldn’t keep away. With each step of his descent, he berated himself for this newfound sense of curiosity and stupidity. Coming here was risky, and he wasn't one to take risks if the odds weren't in his favour. But in the growing darkness of the drawing room his head had been alight with thoughts and questions, and at this point it seemed as if Potter and the rest of his sodding Golden Trio were the only people who could address them.

The light from the tip of his wand revealed the space at the front of the cellar to be empty, as he’d expected. There was no point in Potter and Weasley continuing to linger by the stairs if there was no one to hear them yelling, after all. They’d be tucked around the corner where Lovegood and Ollivander had been, comforting Granger and plotting their revenge... though Draco wasn't quite sure if Gryffindors even had the capacity _to_ plot.

He had heard faint voices murmuring during his noiseless journey down the stairs, but as his feet hit the cellar floor the whispers ceased.

A quiet voice punctured the silence. “Someone’s here.”

Potter.

There was a sharp intake of breath and a sob; Draco guessed it came from Granger. He heard no accompanying roar of rage which led him to figure that Weasley was asleep. Typical.

“Is that you, Draco?” asked a third voice, sounding clearly through the gloom. Lovegood.

“ _What_?!” yelped Granger, her voice hoarse. At the same time, Potter growled, “Malfoy!”

“For your own sakes, I would suggest you keep your voices _down_!” Draco hissed, moving faster as he rounded the corner.

He lifted his wand, bathing the small group before him in its glow. Potter, Granger and Lovegood were huddled together in a small circle on the floor, squinting up into the light which emanated from Draco’s wand. Lovegood had her arm wrapped around Granger’s shoulders, the frizzy-haired girl slumped and leaning into the Ravenclaw. Potter—who’d somehow been freed from his bonds—sat with one hand resting on Granger's knee but looked ready to leap up and defend the group. Draco lifted his hand higher so that the light shifted beyond them, revealing Weasley, who was sleeping as he’d expected, with Ollivander propped against the wall beside him.

Draco returned his attention to Granger, noting that she’d drawn her sleeve down, covering the injury—the word that Bellatrix’s blade had carved into her. The Mudblood’s whisky-brown eyes widened as she followed the direction of his stare.

“Your arm—”

“Was it good, Malfoy?” she interrupted, abruptly tucking her arm behind her and out of view.

“What?”

“Did you enjoy watching her mark me?” she asked darkly. “Do you _like_ that I’ve been branded? Do you wish you could have—”

He cut her off with a sneer. “You really think I’m that sick?”

“Tell me, then,” she breathed, ducking away from Lovegood and leaning forward, her eyes glittering dangerously. “Tell me you don’t think of me as a Mudblood.”

But he couldn’t, because she was. So he raised his brow and stared back.

Hermione nodded then, pulling back again. “Well that clears things up doesn’t it?” she commented scornfully, toeing the ground.                    

They regarded each other mutely. Lovegood’s expression was pensive, Granger sat in hostile fury, and Potter’s brows were scrunched as if he were trying to solve a puzzle—though it was difficult to know for sure, since his face was still disfigured. Draco simply frowned at the small huddle, uncertain as to how to proceed and feeling ever the more foolish for coming.

Finally, Potter spoke. “You could have told them it was me. You knew it was. Why didn’t you?” His voice was low and untrusting.

It was a question he had expected Potter to ask, but he was yet to work the answer out for himself. It was part of why he’d come back to the cellar.

Draco paused, considering. However, before he could fabricate a response, snarky or otherwise, Lovegood provided one for him, her voice ringing with certainty.

“He’s having doubts; he’s wondering if his loyalties truly lie in the right place.”

“I’m _not_ having doubts,” he retorted. "Shut that batty mouth of yours, Lovegood."

Potter growled at Draco threateningly. “Don’t you talk to—”

“What, so watching me get tortured wasn’t convincing enough for you to realise you’re on the wrong side?” Granger demanded over the top of Potter, and though her tone seemed flippant, Draco knew the girl was anything but.

“I can’t stop that sort of thing!” he snapped.

“Coward.” he heard her whisper under her breath, kicking at the ground once again.

“Yes," Draco hissed. "Of _course_ I’m a coward! I value my life; a concept you Gryffindors seem to be unfamiliar with.”

Her response was quick. “Stay on the side you’re currently on, and you’ll find it won’t last long.”

“I made my choice.” He tugged his sleeve up to display his left forearm, revealing the Dark Mark in all its glory.

Granger drew in a sharp breath at the sight, while Potter looked disgusted but unsurprised. Lovegood simply bobbed her head in a nod of acknowledgement as if people had been showing them to her all her life.

Noticing Potter and Granger’s expressions, Draco felt a surge of shame flash through him. He swallowed it down. Why should the disappointment of two Gryffindors mean anything to him? Particularly ones like Potter and Granger?

“So are you here to torture the rest of us now, Malfoy? You want to prove a point? Show us just how well they've trained you… how _dangerous_ you can be when the rest of us are unarmed and defenceless?” Potter tried to make the accusation sound flippant but he wasn’t as good at it as Granger had been, despite the fact that she’d hardly sounded convincing herself.

“No, I don’t think so,” Lovegood commented softly, twirling a loose strand of hair around a finger. “He only does that sort of thing when they make him… and they don’t know that he came down here this time, I don’t think—he snuck in, I'm pretty sure.”

“I _swear_ , Lovegood, you need to stop acting as if you know me—”

“Fine.” Potter held up a hand to interrupt him. “Who are you then, Malfoy? Enlighten us—we’ve got plenty of time to listen, after all.”

“I don’t need to tell you anything, Potter,” he gritted out.

“Then get to the _fucking point_!” Granger hissed.

Draco’s eyes widened of their own accord, taken aback by her profanity. He’d always known the girl was fiercer than the goody two-shoes façade she normally projected, but he’d not expected her to use such language.

What _was_ his ‘fucking point’?

“Do you think you can stop him?” he asked suddenly, turning to Potter. While it wasn’t what he’d been planning on asking, it was as good a question as any. When it came down to it, this was what he most urgently wanted to know.

From the look on his face, Potter hadn’t expected Draco’s question either, but he nodded all the same. “If we get out of here, I think we have a good chance.”

“Good.” Draco’s response slipped from his lips without thought. At the admission, his eyes widened, his stomach lurching.

 _You fucking imbecile!_ he berated himself furiously.

This one _stupid_ word could very well spell his end. If the Dark Lord performed Legilimency on him and his shields weren’t strong enough, if he discovered this confession lurking within the depths of Draco’s mind, he’d be marked a traitor. He could only imagine what the Dark Lord would do if he uncovered such a thing.

Potter raised his eyebrows, surprised at Draco's divulgence, and an inkling of hope appeared on his face. “Help us escape, then.”

Draco let out a derisive laugh. “I can’t do that!”

“Why not?” Potter’s voice was indignant, hinting at his naivety.

“Do you really need to ask, Potter? They’ll _kill_ me; there’ll be no hesitation. They’ve got no reason to.”

For a moment Potter looked as if he was going to continue arguing, but then he closed his mouth abruptly and gave a short nod. With that, the conversation lapsed into silence once more, the small huddle of captives staring hopelessly at the ground. Draco watched them, feeling increasingly defensive as time went on. Of course these people wouldn’t understand his need for self-preservation—they had thrown themselves into this danger in the first place. And they'd been doing the same for years; it was sheer luck that they were still alive.

Draco sighed wearily. “Look, I can’t bear to look at your ugly mug any longer, Potter. Hold still.” He lifted his wand at pointed it at the other boy, deciding he’d held off mercy long enough.

The Gryffindor shuffled backwards, his face contorting in horror. “ _What_?!”

He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be so daft, Potter. If I was going to curse you, I would have done so already. _Finite Incantatem_.” He didn’t bother to see the outcome, turning around instead. “Well, this was… pleasant,” he said airily, stepping away. “I’ll be going now.”

“What—wait!”

Draco kept walking.

Harry’s frustrated voice called after him, “Malfoy! At least give us the password to get out of here. Give us _something_!”

He'd been waiting for that.

He sighed and turned to face them. “You’ll never get through the barriers alone,” he said. “They can only be crossed by those of Malfoy blood and the family’s house elves… and the Dark Lord, of course.”

Draco turned and walked briskly from the cellar. He’d given them all the help he could without threatening his own safety. Whether or not they understood, it was out of his hands now.

 

 

 

Draco returned to his quarters and showered beneath scalding water, scrubbing at his body until his skin was raw. Despite this, as well as the bath he’d had earlier in the day, he still didn’t feel truly clean. He was certain he wouldn’t manage a proper sleep but crawled into his bed anyway, cocooning himself within his blankets as if they could shield him from the world. It was early when he woke, and instantly—though he wasn’t sure how—he knew something had changed.

Draco launched himself out of bed, pulling on the nearest robe and his trousers and boots from the day before. He grabbed his wand and made his way swiftly down the hall, casting a protective shield around himself as he made his way to the drawing room.

His mother and father hovered in the entryway, their eyes focused upon something inside the room. He crept up beside them, Narcissa turning instinctively and nodding as he reached them. She shuffled closer to her husband, the extra space provided allowing Draco a glimpse within.

Bellatrix stood in the centre of the room with her back to them, wand in one hand and dagger in the other. Greyback and Wormtail lingered behind her like a pair of mismatched goons, their wands out as well. Facing them was Potter’s trio and the other cellar prisoners—Lovegood was supporting a very weak looking Ollivander—and standing in front of them, tiny and uncharacteristically defiant, was a house elf.

Draco couldn't remember this one’s name, but he knew it was the one that Potter had tricked his father into freeing back in his second year. The creature had been working in the Hogwarts kitchens since then; Draco had been in there and seen it in his ridiculously garish clothing, had heard him preaching his adoration of Harry Potter to anyone who would listen.

So they _had_ understood the clue that he’d given them. The hint had been a long shot, something he couldn’t entirely guarantee; since the elf was technically free, Draco hadn't known for certain whether the creature would still be able to access the manor and pass through the wards.

Narcissa touched him on the shoulder, jerking her chin towards the gathering in the drawing room. “Come,” she whispered.

Together, the three Malfoys stepped further into the room, moving closer to Bellatrix, Greyback and Wormtail. Lucius moved with them, despite having nothing but his bare hands with which to defend himself.

The elf’s eyes widened as he recognised his former owners.

“You will stop this instant!” he cried as he pointed one long finger at the Malfoy trio, his voice shrill and commanding.

“How dare you speak to your masters in such a way, you fetid little creature?” Bellatrix snarled. “I demand you step away from those traitors at once.”

“Dobby has no masters!” the elf squealed. “Dobby is a free elf, and Dobby has come to save Harry Potter and his friends!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw his father wrench his sleeve up and press his fingers against his Mark. He felt the familiar burn of his left arm and frowned in bemusement at Potter’s reaction, how his hands had seemed to have flown up to his scar almost simultaneously. Potter staggered backwards, his face greying as he sank into a squatting position, bracing his other hand against the ground for balance. Granger bent down slightly, her brown eyes still focused on the rest of the room as her hand gripped his shoulder, while Weasley moved to shield him.

Bellatrix seemed to take no note of the Golden Trio’s actions. Shrieking in rage at the elf’s continued defiance, she launched forward at the creature, hissing curses through her teeth. A shot of black light burst from her wand followed by a red one from Wormtail’s, but both suddenly rebounded against the protective shield which Dobby quickly raised in response, causing them, Greyback and the Malfoys to flatten themselves against the floor to avoid being hit by their own curses.

“The Dark Lord is coming!” Wormtail hissed, hand pressed against his left arm as he raised his head to glare at the group behind the house elf. “He has been alerted. You can’t escape!”

Dobby snapped his fingers then, and Draco felt an uncontrollable pull as his wand was wrenched out of his hand. He realised then, too late, that his protective shield had dissipated when he’d thrown himself to the floor. And then suddenly Potter clasped five wands in one hand, his other hand still pressed against his forehead. The boy reacted quickly, biting his lip and rising to his feet with a grimace before turning to toss four of the wands to Granger, Weasley and Lovegood, who also claimed one for Ollivander. He kept the fifth—Draco’s—for himself.

Draco scrambled up, intending to race back out to the hall. He wasn't sure what he'd do when he got there but it would at least put some distance between them. But as he stood, a sudden force threw him backwards. He landed hard on his back, cursing internally as the air was knocked out of him. He raised his head, gasping for breath as he tried to spot the escapees. Potter had moved to stand in a close clump with the others, his back to Draco as he clutched one of the house elf’s tiny wrists. Nearby, he saw Bellatrix struggling to her feet, her fingers still wrapped around her cursed dagger. As the elf snapped his fingers a final time, the boy glanced over his shoulder, and for a second his eyes met Draco’s.

Then, the group vanished.

Draco heard something groan from above him. He looked up at the ceiling.

The last thing he saw was the chandelier as it came crashing down.

 

* * *

 

   

Narcissa stared at the empty space near the centre of the room.

The captives were gone, all of them. Most alarmingly: they had lost Harry Potter.

Beside her, Lucius was cowering on the ground, his hand pressed to his mark as he howled in pain. Glancing around, she saw that Wormtail and Bellatrix were bent in similar positions; they could feel their Marks burning too. The Dark Lord was coming. A few metres away, beyond the unconscious form of Greyback, she spotted Draco lying motionless beneath the smashed chandelier, buried beneath crystal and chain.

She needed to move, now.

Narcissa scrambled to her feet, lifting her skirts as she ran to Draco. Her hands were shaking; in fact, her whole body trembled with fear. She didn’t dare use her wand in case she did more damage than good. She lowered to a crawl, scraping her arms and her hands as she pulled off the debris covering her son. When he was clear she grasped a hold of his ankles, dragging him out to a clearer patch of floor, panting lightly with the effort. Seeing his chest rising, she sought out his pulse point for further clarification, then gasped with relief.

He was so still, his pulse so faint… but he was alive.

She knelt by Draco's unconscious form, stroking his cheek gently with a forefinger before placing a soft kiss on his forehead.

She reached into her pocket of her robes and drew out the silk-wrapped package which she’d tucked there the night before. She carefully unwrapped it and, holding onto the chain through the silk so that it didn’t touch her skin, she gently lowered it, allowing it to dangle over Draco's fist. She moved herself back, making sure no part of her was touching him.

“Goodbye, my Draco,” she whispered, allowing the necklace to drop into his hand.

 Draco disappeared.


	4. Almach Cottage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for tuning in so far! This is my first attempt at creative writing in YEARS and I'm having lots of fun.
> 
> ~
> 
> Note: The short transcript at the end of this chapter is verbatim and appears in italicised block quotes. It occurs earlier in this story than in DH, but... this is AU, right? :)

Draco opened his eyes slowly, squinting in confusion at the pale yellow wall before him. After rousing no helpful memories whatsoever he rolled over, finding himself in an unfamiliar bedroom. He scanned his relatively bare surrounds, taking in the pale wooden dresser, desk, and matching bedside tables. White lace curtains framed a window through which sunlight poured, and a faded blue rug sat on the gleaming hardwood floor. There were three doors which he could only assume led to a wardrobe and possibly a bathroom, as well as the house beyond.

Draco pushed back his blankets and peered down at himself, finding himself clad in a pair of flannelette pyjamas which were not his own. Then, panicking, he realised he didn't know where his wand was. He patted the area around himself then underneath his pillows, frantically searching through the folds of his sheets and pyjamas. Nothing. Hope fading fast, he pushed himself up into a sitting position and reached for the bedside table closest to him, ignoring the ache in his shoulder as he wrenched out the single drawer. Empty. Cursing, he scrambled to the other side of the bed and checked the other table’s drawer. Also empty.

Then he remembered. Potter. Potter had taken his wand.

Although he tried to recall it, Draco had absolutely no idea what had happened afterwards. Wherever ‘here’ was, it certainly wasn’t the manor.

What exactly had happened to him, and just how long had he been asleep?

He flopped back down onto the pillows with a sigh of frustration, staring up at the ceiling as he attempted to calm his nerves. He felt distressed and disoriented in this unknown place with no form of protection. At the very least, the room _was_ cheerful—sparse, yes, but welcoming enough—and since he’d awoken alone and in a comfortable bed, perhaps he wasn't here as a prisoner. Surely if he was, the lodgings would be slightly more… unpleasant.

But of course, Draco wasn’t one to trust on appearances alone; until he knew more about his situation, he decided to proceed as cautiously as he could. Trying to make as little sound as possible, he drew back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed, his toes making contact with the floor. Keeping close to the wall, he tiptoed across the room toward the window, noting the dull ache in his legs, back and stomach as he moved. He carefully peeled back the edge of the curtain to peer outside at the abundant garden, greenhouse and a rusty shed. The yard was surrounded by a low fence backing onto a stretch of rolling fields. No one was out there. He tried not to be alarmed by the decidedly non-wintery atmosphere; surely he hadn’t been comatose through to spring.

Judging by the positon of the sun in the sky, Draco estimated it to be about midday, though of course, he couldn’t cast a Tempus Charm to confirm it. In the past, he’d had some luck with simple wandless magic, but he knew without trying that he was too weak and couldn’t afford to expend the energy. He turned away from the window and considered the doors, weighing his options. He chose one at random and pulled it open a crack to reveal a long hallway. He could take the Gryffindor approach and barge out there straight away. However, no matter how sunny and pleasant this bedroom was, Draco wasn’t quick to trust others, not after his recent life experiences, and especially not when unarmed. Apart from the aches he was suffering from he was in reasonable physical shape, but he wasn’t particularly strong; weeks of sleepless nights and a limited appetite certainly hadn’t helped matters.

He gently pressed the door closed then swung around and proceeded to search the rest of the room. In the dresser he found exactly one set of underwear and one pair of socks. The second door led to a small wardrobe, empty save for a pair of shoes, some grey woollen trousers, a white button up shirt and a black jacket. Everything was in his size, and it didn’t take much to realise this was no coincidence.

Taking the hint, Draco collected each item of clothing and made his way through the final door which, as he'd expected, led to a bathroom. It was much smaller than his personal bathroom at the manor but it was tidy and cheerful, just as the bedroom was. A towel hung on the rack and a toothbrush and toothpaste sat in a pot by the sink. He gazed at the small array of items forlornly, remembering once again that he was wandless and therefore limited to doing everything the Muggle way. Moving to push the bathroom door closed, Draco regarded the knob with a frown of disconcertion; there was no way to lock it, be it by Muggle or magical means. Deciding to take the risk, he turned on the taps and peeled off his pyjamas.

Still feeling strange about the fact he had absolutely no idea where he was, Draco stepped under the pleasantly heated water and rubbed at his face, feeling the staleness of sleep wash away. Looking down at himself, he noticed bruises and scrapes which hadn't been there the last time he’d been naked. It wasn’t until he reached for the shampoo bottle and started lathering his hair that he realised the extent of stiffness in his back, particularly around his shoulders.

He continued to ponder beneath the spray, vague details from the manor resurfacing in his mind. That word that Bellatrix had carved into Granger’s arm, and with it, the sound of her screams. That strange encounter down in the cellar in the dead of night with Potter, Granger and Lovegood. His father’s old house elf appearing and shouting at his aunt. Losing his wand to Potter—in fact, losing five wands to Potter. Potter’s group had disappeared before Draco’s eyes, and then… then he’d heard a sound from above. He’d looked up at the ceiling and then… and then nothing.  

There was also a blurry picture in his head—perhaps it had been a dream?—of Potter, turning to glance down at him, an apologetic expression on his face before he disappeared into thin air.

Draco didn’t linger in the shower much longer after that. While he was renowned among his housemates for his luxurious bathing patterns, this wasn’t the time for dilly-dallying. Standing on the bathmat, he towel-dried his hair as he scrutinised his reflection, thankful this particular mirror hadn't been enchanted to pay compliments. Not that there was anything to compliment right now. He looked tired, his skin translucent even after bathing. It made him appear sickly, though the sight was hardly unusual—he’d looked unwell for quite some time. What _was_ new though were the cuts on his face—one on his lip and another on his chin—as well as the dark smudge of a bruise on his forehead. His memory may have been hazy but he knew that those hadn’t been caused by his most recent duel with his aunt Bellatrix. Draco frowned at them, pressing his fingertips gingerly to his forehead.

He dressed in the clean set of clothing and returned to the room, which remained as he’d left it. He glanced towards the bed and then shuffled over and proceeded to make it as best he could. Draco had never made a bed before in his life but he had no wand and could hardly summon a house elf to do it for him. Prisoner or not, he’d still been raised properly.

With nothing left to explore or occupy himself with, he sat down on the bed and waited, his eyes fixed on the door which led to the hall. Some ten minutes later, there came a soft knock.

Draco started, wrenched suddenly from his thoughts. He paused a moment, heart racing. “Yes?” he called, his voice hoarse from lack of use. He cleared his throat and repeated himself more clearly.

The door pushed open slowly and a brunette woman stepped into the room. He’d never met her before but still recognised her immediately.

“Aunt Andromeda?”

She smiled at him and nodded. “Hello Draco.”

           

 

 

Andromeda Tonks clearly resembled the other two Black sisters. Apart from her hair, which was a wavy light brown, she looked almost identical to Narcissa, lacking the manic glint which gave hint to Bellatrix Lestrange’s insanity. As Draco examined her more closely though, he began to notice more differences between this aunt and his mother. Narcissa—porcelain skinned and a picture of unblemished perfection—was much paler while Andromeda had the look of one who spent quite a bit of time outside—her arms were toned and tanned and a light dusting of freckles covered her nose. Their eyes were similar: large, wide and long-lashed, but Andromeda’s were brown instead of Narcissa’s blue.

The most significant difference between the two women seemed to be in regard to their deportment. As Draco watched Andromeda move towards him, he immediately noticed the ease about her, a type of relaxed confidence which his poised mother had never truly possessed. She conjured a chair and positioned herself opposite him, and Draco noted with surprise that despite him being a stranger to her—this woman who had been disowned by his maternal relations—she didn’t seem to harbor any resentment towards him. Not yet, at least. While this was somewhat surprising since he knew of the Tonks family’s alliances, Draco found he wasn’t particularly concerned what the woman’s opinions were. Getting back to the manor and his real family was his only priority.

“Well Draco, it’s good to finally meet you… although, I do wish we were doing so under better circumstances,” she told him with a sympathetic smile.

Draco ignored her comment; it had never been intended for them to meet, and it _certainly_ wasn’t a pleasure in his eyes. He wasn't interested in partaking in a show of smiles and other falsities. “Where am I, and why am I here?” he demanded instead.

Her smile faded and she bobbed her head slightly, as if to acknowledge that the lack of pleasantries had been expected. “You’re at my home—Almach Cottage. A Portkey brought you here, though you were unconscious when you arrived.”

“A Portkey,” he repeated dully, wondering why his mother—for who else could it possibly have been?—would even consider sending him to her estranged sister.

“It was a necklace,” Andromeda explained. “I gave it to your mother long ago, back when we were young. It was intended to be used in an emergency.”

_An emergency. Such as the Dark Lord coming and killing us all._

“She sent me alone.”

The woman nodded. “Yes, though I can’t say why.”

 _Well, of course not_. “Right. And how long have I been here?” he asked stiffly.

She glanced down at her wristwatch. “Twenty-eight hours, or thereabouts.”

Draco’s manners stopped him from gaping in surprise as he wondered two things. First: how had he managed to sleep so long? And second: what kind of state was the manor in now, and his family in particular? The Dark Lord had been summoned by his father more than a day ago; anything could have happened in the time in between. What if…

“I have to go back—” His words were cut off as he noticed Andromeda shaking her head.

“I’m sorry Draco, but I can’t let that happen,” she told him quietly.

He threw himself to his feet. “I need to leave!”

“You can’t leave." His aunt’s words were firm and, as she sat there eyeing him calmly, Draco had a distinct urge to throttle her.

“What do you mean by _that_?” he demanded, glaring down at her. Manners be damned; he had no obligation to be polite to this woman. How dare she assume herself to be his keeper?

“There are wards around my property which prevent you from leaving. You need to stay here.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “So what, I’m your _prisoner_?” he spat.

Andromeda continued to ignore his sarcastic tone, her own voice mild as she said, “You can’t return there… wherever it was that you came from. Malfoy Manor, I presume?”

“My family is there! _He_ is probably there now. Do you understand what will happen to them—to me—if I don’t go back? I’ve already been gone more than a day. Don't you know what could happen, what might have _already_ happened?”

“I can certaintly imagine,” Andromeda replied, “and I think Cissy could too, and that’s why she sent you here.”

“Do not speak about my mother as if you know her,” Draco snarled. “You have _no_ fucking right!”

Andromeda paused, running a hand briefly over her eyes. “You’re right, Draco. I—I don’t know your mother, not anymore. But I do know this—you would not be here unless she had no better option.”

“So she sent me here, to _you_. Why?”

The brunette woman sighed. “Years ago, right before I left, I gave your mother the necklace Portkey. What happened between me and the rest of my family was exacerbated by my choice of husband, but I had always been different to the rest of them, and the disparity in our viewpoints had existed for years. Our relationship had become toxic long before they learned of my relationship with Ted. Once I had a chance to leave, I took it. Cissy... well, Bellatrix had already sunk her claws in, so she had no great love for me either. I was betrothed to your father—” at this, Draco’s lips parted in surprise, “—but I suspected that, once I left, the families would arrange for Cissy to wed him in my place. Even though she agreed with the rest of the family’s sentiments, I knew there was a chance that one day she might find herself in danger with no means of escaping it. I created the Portkey for her, offering my protection if her life ever came under threat… I told her the offer would always stand, regardless of any hatred she held for me. The fact that she sent you here after all these years indicates the severity of the situation you were in.”

“I cannot just… _leave_ her there with the Dark Lord… and Bellatrix—”

“She could have come with you,” Andromeda interrupted, “but she didn’t. Your mother would have known the risk of staying and unfortunately, you will need have faith that she knows what she’s doing. I am sorry, truly, Draco. I understand what you’re going through, but there’s nothing which can be done.”

She stood up and made her way to the door, her face tinged with sympathy.

“ _You_ turned your back on your family. You don’t understand a thing about this!” Draco growled.

She fixed him with a small smile over shoulder. “Then I will try to. Come, you must be hungry.”

Andromeda slipped out the door, leaving Draco to swallow his retort and stare furiously after her. Sighing resentfully, he followed her down a hall which opened up into a combined kitchen and dining area. The open space was bright, homely and welcoming and so absolutely unlike Malfoy Manor in its humbleness, the walls a pale sage with white cabinets and wooden benchtops.

Andromeda gestured to a stool by the counter and he dropped onto it wordlessly, glowering at her as she moved about the kitchen.

“Coffee?” she asked, ignoring his obvious hostility, and Draco nodded grudgingly, watching with distaste as she proceeded to prepare his drink the Muggle way rather than with her wand. There were electric contraptions— _appliants_?—and while clean, they gave the impression of being well-used.

Draco pulled his eyes away to gaze around the room, pretending to gaze at the family pictures as he scanned the area for a fireplace. There had to be one somewhere, but then again, where could he Floo to? What destination would be safe _and_ linked to this particular network? The brief feeling of hopefulness curdled in his gut as he realised that for now, the option was hardly possible.

Perhaps if he got his hands on a wand he would be able to Apparate. This idea was swiftly rejected too; the wards wouldn’t allow it; his aunt had implied as much.

His aunt. Her existence had never been a secret but it felt surreal to be able to actually put a face to the name.

It didn’t make him interested in bonding with her, however.

Andromeda set a steaming mug before him, placing milk and sugar alongside it so he could make adjustments to his liking. Draco spooned in sugar and poured milk, watching her silently as she levitated a plate of sandwiches from the fridge and set it between them, reaching for one herself. She leaned against the counter as she bit into it, eyes focused on the expanse of garden which could be seen from the window. After a moment, Draco reached for a sandwich of his own. They spent the next few minutes eating in silence and as his hunger began to abate, Draco started to feel slightly calmer, more prepared to listen to the woman had to say. Averting his eyes, he reached for a second one and waited for his aunt to speak.

Andromeda reached into her pocket and placed a small container on the counter. “Bruise removal paste,” she stated, pushing it towards him. “I made it up fresh this morning.” She sighed, finger tracing the rim of her mug. “Look, I know you and I are strangers, Draco, so I don’t expect you to talk to me… yet. At some point you’ll need to though.”

“Why do I _need_ to do anything? I didn’t ask to be here,” he said shortly. “I’m not interested in staying.”

“I know this wasn’t your choice,” she conceded, “but there must have been a reason she sent you here, yes? People don’t just send their unconscious sons to their estranged sisters at a whim. At some point, I’ll need you to tell me what happened.”

Draco took a sip of his coffee but did not reply. Andromeda didn’t ask again, instead trying from a different angle.

“I changed you into your pyjamas when you arrived,” she continued, her eyes flicking down to his forearm, “I noticed—”

“I’m not going to talk about that with you,” Draco told her abruptly, his hand moving to his sleeve and tugging it down despite the area already being hidden.

She took in his sharp reaction without surprise. “Okay.”

“So, what am I supposed to do now?” he asked sardonically, running his eyes over the open room once more. "Are we going to acquaint ourselves, share life stories?"

She snorted lightly and sipped at her coffee. “Something like that. Well, you can’t return home—no matter how strongly you feel about it—and going back to Hogwarts is out of the question too. At this point you’ll be staying here. You’ll be safe.”

“Here?” he repeated scornfully.

The woman’s face clouded slightly before she blinked it away. “After our property was raided last August, we made our wards stronger and more complex. As I mentioned earlier, they prevent you from passing, both physically and magically. The same is true for those who wish to come in. Apart from the very specific Portkey I issued to your mother, our home is only accessible via one entrance which is located at another Unplottable property –"

Hearing that, Draco's heart sank, as all notions of finding a fireplace to use dissipated.

"– Both places are warded using the Fidelius Charm. Our daughter Nymphadora _was_ our Secret Keeper –" she eyed him pointedly as she stressed the word 'was', “—But the current one is a less obvious choice.”

Draco had never met Nymphadora but knew she was a few years older and that she’d been a Hufflepuff during her Hogwarts days; his father had mentioned this it numerous times with smug satisfaction. He also knew she worked as an Auror now, but little else beyond that.

“There’s something else you should know—when you arrived here, I asked Nymphadora to inform the others. I’ll need to tell them you’re awake.”

“The others?” Draco echoed, fear rippling through him at the idea that his cousin had notified her Auror colleagues as to his whereabouts. It didn't matter whether or not the ones that Nymphadora had informed were loyal to the Dark Lord; he was bound to suffer no matter whose hands he fell into. Or did she mean–

“I assume you've heard of the Order.”

Draco gaped at her in alarm. “Are you _fucking kidding_?!” Yes, he had heard of Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix, his so-called secret society of do-gooders. Potter had probably taken over as their leader now the old man was dead. As for the other members, well, he could only make guesses, but he was confident that he could correctly name a few.

These were people who were surely out for his blood.

He couldn’t work out which was a worse alternative—the Aurors knowing his location, or Potter's lot. “You gave your sister a Portkey and she sacrifices her own life and sends her son to you instead, and then you alert the fucking Order? I thought you said I was here under your protection not being sent to the slaughter!”

“Of course you’re under my protection,” she replied, calm as ever, “but informing them is a responsibility that we won’t shirk, no matter what our family ties are. You will remain here and be protected, just as I promised.”

Draco’s mind whirled as he thought of Potter, Granger, Lovegood and the others, mentally cataloguing the various things he’d done to them and, more importantly, what he hadn’t. “Well, the Order must be barmier than I thought if they think I deserve their protection.”

“No one said anything about you _deserving_ protection,” Andromeda answered coolly. “But you will receive it, all the same. Almach Cottage is one of the established safe-houses. People come and go here as they need. Whether you like it or not, you are one of those people now, except you’ll be staying for the unforeseeable future.”

“This _is_ imprisonment, isn’t it?” he said dully.

She paused, seeming to consider her answer. “To be honest, Draco, I can’t tell you the specific label for your situation at this point. Whether you’re a considered a prisoner of the Order or not isn’t for me to decide. All I know is that it has been determined that you’ll be staying here with me. Nymphadora will likely be able to give you more information than I; her level of involvement with the Order enables her to access more restricted intelligence, you see.”

He stared at her blankly for a moment, then lowered his gaze to his clenched hands, any last traces of hunger now gone. Andromeda continued to regard him solemnly and finally Draco sighed, realising she was waiting for him to speak. Eventually the silence became overwhelming.

“You said people come and go?”

Andromeda nodded. “That’s right. This location serves as a safe haven for members of the Order and its allies and supporters. Different types come here—people who are on the run and need to lay low, or who are injured and need a place to heal, or as temporary housing if their own place has been destroyed. And there are others, of course.”

“And there’s no one else here at the moment? Just you and me?”

“Just us. There were a couple of other people last week.” He noticed she didn’t mention their names, not that he could really do anything with the information anyway. Who exactly could he pass it on to? “There’s been a steady flow of people coming through lately, though,” she continued. “I’m sure we’ll have more guests soon.”

 _Fantastic,_ Draco thought to himself bitterly.

“I expect you are aware that you will need to use your utmost discretion when we have company. The people who visit might be the Order’s allies but your position is precarious nevertheless.”

He merely raised an eyebrow, implying that the woman must think him stupid to feel the need to mention such a thing.

“And while you’re here, I’d appreciate your help around the place,” Andromeda added.

He blinked. “Pardon?”

“Normally Ted is here too, but it became too dangerous for him to stay... what with the new Muggle-Born Registration Commission," she spat the last few words.

_Ted…that must be the Mudblood husband who got Andromeda’s name burned from the tapestries._

“We were developing restorative potions primarily—our garden is large, so we have the means to grow a wide range of ingredients. However, with Ted not being here anymore and me needing to look after visitors and tend to other business… it’s been hard to keep up. Are you a capable brewer, Draco?”

Draco sniffed and was about to respond haughtily before realising an honest answer may not be to his advantage. “I’m capable enough,” he conceded.

She smiled. “Well that’s good to know. It’ll help you keep busy. I know it might be hard for a while, not being able to return to school. But Nymphadora’s got her old books here, actually. Her room is more or less how it was during her Hogwarts days. I’ll take you there now, and you can have a look through—see if anything there interests you.” Her eyes flicked to his attire. “You’ll be getting more clothes of course. She’s fetching some for you at this very moment, in fact. She should be here within a couple of hours.”

“Fine.” Draco knew the one-word response was immature and ungrateful but at this point he was beyond caring. He wasn't exactly thrilled to be in this position after all, and it wasn't as if the woman didn't know it.

Andromeda gestured to his mug. “More coffee before we head to her room?”

He passed it to her. “Yes… thank you,” he added grudgingly. She inclined her head in response, smiling at him once again.

While the situation wasn’t great it could be worse, he realised, watching as Andromeda set the kettle to boil once more. This time she added the sugar and milk to his mug herself, obviously having paid attention when he’d prepared it the first time. Draco gave her a stiff nod of thanks as he accepted the beverage from her, then stood and followed as she led him back down the hall to a room adjacent to his.

Nymphadora’s room was everything that Draco’s guestroom was not. The walls—what could be seen of them anyway—were painted in a shimmery paint which changed from purple to green depending on the angle at which one looked at them. Nymphadora had plastered much of it with posters of bands, however. Some were wizard ones, but many appeared to be Muggle musicians, though it was only because of the motionless posters that Draco could make those deductions. They’d made it onto the ceiling as well. He noticed that she—or the younger version of her, at least—appeared to have an affinity for men who wore eyeliner and painted their nails black. The shelves of her bookcase were overflowing, with several piles on the floor, including a stack of magazines. A tall skinny cupboard was crammed full of tiny plastic cases, the spines of each labelled. Another bookcase proudly displayed a range of knickknacks. Many items he couldn’t recognise, but among them he identified a Remembrall, two Sneakoscopes, and several amethyst cluster geodes. He spied a broomstick propped in one corner and eyed it enviously, realising with a pang that it would likely be a long time before he’d be able to fly again. The double bed had a simple lavender blanket thrown over, piled high with black and silver cushions and plush dragons.

Draco had never seen a Hufflepuff’s bedroom before but this definitely hadn’t been what he’d expected.

“Nymphadora is… a bit of a hoarder,” Andromeda told him with a smirk, and all Draco could do was nod. “She said to tell you that you’re free to have a look around and borrow anything you want.”

“Right.” He tried not to sound too interested.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she said, then turned to leave the room.

“Andromeda?”

She turned back to him, “Yes?”

"Almach Cottage isn't a cottage."

Andromeda gazed at him blankly, then her face split into a grin. "Oh, I know," she said cheerfully, "but Ted called the place that from the beginning. He started it to tease me, see, since I'd gone from an abode fit for a daughter of _'The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black' –_ " her words were mocking, "– to here. The name stuck, and now that's what everyone calls it."

"I see," he said shortly, then turned his back to her.

Draco waited, listening as Andromeda’s footsteps faded away before making his way over to the bookcase. Among the volumes crammed onto the shelves he spied most of the books which formed the seventh year syllabus, though some were earlier editions. Of course back in Nymphadora's days ‘Dark Arts’, now taught by Amycus Carrow, hadn’t been a part of the Hogwarts curriculum, so that particular text was missing from her collection. The majority of the seventh year books he’d read through entirely by now, even though it was only the end of December. It seemed that Nymphadora’s books would come in handy however, and particularly the potions ones if he was supposed to help with brewing. He pulled those off the shelves and started to make a pile beside him. Absently he wondered if he’d still be taking his NEWTs and if there was any point in preparing for them at all.

Draco wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about the idea of making potions with his aunt. He was a Death Eater after all, and she was aligned with the Order. Wouldn’t assisting label him as even more of a traitor? He’d be practically working against his own side, wouldn’t he? However, she _had_ mentioned making restorative potions, not poisons, and perhaps he could allow himself to make those without compunction, since those types of draughts couldn’t be used to hurt his family. Draco knew he could simply refuse to help, but the idea of brewing things regularly was rather enticing and outweighed his urge to be spiteful. Brewing was something which could be done without a wand for the most part, and something he could use to distract himself. In another life Draco had dreamed of training under Severus after he graduated and becoming a Potions Master himself. It had always been just a dream of course because, whilst potioneering was an admirable skill and a perfectly suitable pastime, and even though his father deeply respected his former protégé, Lucius held higher hopes for his only heir.

He continued to examine Nymphadora’s books. There were a range of other textbooks which he assumed she’d acquired during her Auror training. They would be interesting to read too, even if it was a career he’d never been interested in before and would be stupid to consider for himself now. After sliding a few of these onto his pile Draco bent lower to examine some smaller sized volumes. He discovered that quite a few of them were Muggle novels. He’d never read any before; such things would hardly have a place in the Malfoy library or the Slytherin common room, after all. Curious, he pulled out a few, reading the spines and flipping them over to peruse the blurbs. His cousin seemed to be interested in a genre of literature referred to as ‘Science Fiction’ he noted, tentatively adding _Neuromancer_ , _Ender’s Game_ and _Foundation_ to the growing pile beside him.

After he had finished building his pile of books Draco meandered over to the tall skinny cupboard, scrutinising the different cases there. Pulling some of them out, he noticed that some of the covers resembled the posters on the walls. The items were obviously Muggle, but beyond that he wasn’t sure. He pushed them back into their places and returned to the pile of books, shifting them to beside the bed. He hovered by it for a minute, considering, then climbed up, grabbing one of the novels and settling himself against the pillows.

He was three chapters into _Ender’s Game_ when an amused voice said, “Well this is a sight I never expected to see.”

Draco sat up with a jolt, shocked by the sudden interruption. He glared up at the woman standing before him. She had a heart shaped face, twinkling dark eyes, bubble-gum pink hair and, just like the bands she favoured, appeared to have a fondness for eyeliner. Hands on her hips as she grinned down at him, she looked very pleased with herself.

Draco refused to appear embarrassed by the fact that his cousin had caught him reading a Muggle book while nestled in a pile of cushions and stuffed dragons. He closed the book and placed it beside him, then fixed his gaze on the woman.

“Wotcher, cousin!” she greeted him cheerfully. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

He couldn’t help frowning at her casual attitude. He'd met enough Aurors over the years and this woman didn't seem to meet the profile at all. Unless this was some kind of façade... no, she was a Hufflepuff; she could hardly be so cunning.

“Nymphadora, I presume?” he asked stiffly.

The woman snorted. “Only to my mother. It’s Tonks to everyone else.”

“Tonks…” repeated Draco, uncertain. He wasn’t one to use nicknames, particularly not with people that he’d just met and especially not with people he had no intention of befriending. On the other hand, he supposed it _was_ the woman’s surname, though it seemed strange to address a relative by their surname.

“Tonks," she affirmed. "So, cousin. You’ll be staying here awhile.”

Draco nodded stiffly. “So it seems.”

Tonks laughed heartily. “You don't sound particularly thrilled about the idea. Mum’s not that bad. It’s hardly a death sentence.”

Draco froze at her words.

His reaction obviously confused her, as she paused a moment, appearing to analyse him, then frowned. “Oh—I didn’t mean to—”

Draco put up a hand to stop her. “It’s fine,” he said shortly.

She regarded him for a moment, her head cocked to the side and her lips pursed. “Hmm… Draco, I know it’s a bit early to talk about stuff—you only woke up a few hours ago and you’ve not had much time to adjust to being here. But… it might help you to know: if you’re a defected Death Eater, if you renounce You-Know-Who, then it’ll be taken into consideration… afterwards.”

She meant after the war of course, if Potter and his wonder squad were to triumph. If that were to happen then the Death Eaters—those who were still alive, anyway—would be put on trial before being locked away in Azkaban. Or Kissed.

Draco realised then that it would be easy for him to go along with her—she’d provided him with an opening after all. He could lie to them, could swear fealty to Potter and the Light. Over time, perhaps he could gain the Order’s trust. Surely an opportunity would arise where he could reunite with his family, return to their side. Alternatively, if the Light won the war before then, maybe he'd receive a reduced sentence or be able to avoid Azkaban altogether, as Tonks had implied.

But for any of that to happen, sacrifices would need to be made. Swearing fealty—even if it was false fealty—would put an even greater price on his head than the one which he’d likely attained after his disappearance. If Draco swore loyalty to the Light, they’d expect him to spill secrets, leak information; without doing so, he’d have no chance of gaining their confidence. Even if the Malfoys had fallen from grace in the eyes of their master, Draco was still a part of the Dark Lord's Inner Circle—his Mark was proof of it—and privy to all kinds of information.

But, he realised, even if he succeeded in fooling the Light and managed to return to the manor, there was no guarantee he’d go unpunished. Perhaps the Dark Lord would recognise his attempts at self-preservation for what they were, but that didn’t mean he’d accept them. At the very least, Draco would receive torture and punishment if he were to return. There was a good chance he’d be killed too, particularly if he couldn't offer the Dark Lord enough information to redeem himself.

Draco was cunning, not stupid; there were too many risks when it came to espionage.

And in regard to the alternative—defecting and crossing to the Light for real—well, that was just ludicrous. Draco could hardly turn his back on his family—his mother in particular—even if it meant he could save himself.

Most importantly, his pride stood in the way. He couldn't bow to Potter.

No, he couldn't do that.

"Draco?" Tonks was staring at him, her face slightly concerned. He realised that he'd been silent for a long time. "Did you want to–"

“Who said anything about me being defected?” He interrupted, glaring at her darkly.

She eyed him a moment longer, then to his astonishment, fixed him with a bright smile. “Only time will tell, I reckon. Now… I’ve grabbed you some clothes, an assortment. The sizing might not be quite right, but I hope it’s close. Since you’re a… Malfoy, I’m going to hazard a guess and assume that they won’t be up to your… usual standard.” Her eyes rolled good-naturedly; Draco simply glowered. “However, it’s hard to sneak around, and I can hardly go into shops at the moment, so I’ve collected the majority from other safe-houses. I’m sure you know Harry, Ron and the Weasley twins?” Her eyes were wide as she finished, her expression too innocent to be believed. Her eyes sparkled; how had he not noticed the brilliant shade of green before now?

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going to wear clothes which belong to Potter and his Weasels?”

Tonks smiled slyly at him and winked. “Desperate times, right?”

He wanted to curse the woman, but of course he was wandless and couldn’t. She’d done this on purpose, of course she had.

“I hardly think they’d appreciate you donating to me on their behalf,” he commented darkly.

“Fred and George were thrilled to be of service, actually,” she told him cheerfully. “They even volunteered to help deliver them. And Harry and Ron, well… they’re not around right now, so I couldn't really ask them. They can get new clothes later.”

“Ah yes, on the run with Granger,” Draco murmured.

Tonks’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You were aware?”

He quickly covered for himself. “Well it’s hardly difficult to work that out. They’ve all been absent from school the entire year. Plus Potter’s ‘Undesirable Number One’ and all that.”

Tonks nodded thoughtfully but didn’t seem entirely satisfied by his explanation.

“Well,” Draco sighed, eager to end the conversation, “I suppose I’ll go and have a look at these... clothes you’ve managed to scrounge for me.”

He clambered out of the bed as gracefully as he could and bent down to scoop up the pile of books. The stack was heavy but damned if he was going to make that known. Tonks shuffled back to let him through, remaining in the room as he crossed the hall to his own. He could practically feel her smiling at him.

 

 

 

A few hours later, the three of them were seated around Andromeda’s small dining table for dinner. Over the course of the afternoon, Draco had noticed Tonks’s eye colour change from green to black to purple. He’d been rather vexed when he’d learned his cousin was a Metamorphmagus. (“All this about twaddle not being able to go to the shops for my clothes! You can bloody disguise yourself, you deceitful devil-woman!”). To his ire, the young woman had found his indignation hilarious.

Now, Tonks chatted merrily about their family’s traditions as they spooned peas, corn, roasted vegetables and beef wellington onto their plates. The topic of Christmas was skirted around, most likely because it wasn’t a particularly cheerful memory; Ted Tonks had been on the run during it. Draco wondered dully if anyone in Wizarding Britain had managed to have a normal Christmas. For the most part however, he sat stonily, not bothering to comment or contribute his own stories despite the two women’s obvious attempts to include him in the conversation.

As his aunt bustled about the kitchen, Tonks leaned over and produced a wireless radio from her back. Andromeda returned to the table with three mugs of hot chocolate, setting them down and casting an anxious glance at the wireless as she settled back into her seat. Both his aunt and his cousin looked considerably nervous as Tonks set it into position. Draco affected an expression of boredom, but in truth, he was curious, very curious.

“ _Potterwatch_ is on tonight,” Tonks explained quietly. “It’s a pirate station.”

" _Potterwatch_?" he repeated, forgetting his attempt to appear disinterested.

"A source of information," Andromeda murmured, steepling her fingers.

Tonks tapped the wireless with her wand and muttered, “Padfoot,” and then the wireless came to life. Tonks and Andromeda leaned forward unconsciously, listening intently.

> _“…I’m pleased to tell you that two of our regular contributors have joined me here this evening. Evening, boys!”_
> 
> _“Hi.”_
> 
> _“Evening, River.”_
> 
> _“But before we hear from Royal and Romulus,”_ River continued, _“Let’s take a moment to report those deaths that the_ Wizarding Wireless Network News _and the_ Daily Prophet _don’t think important enough to mention.”_

Here, Draco noticed Andromeda and Tonks grasp each other’s hands over the table. To his surprise, he felt the familiar sensation of nerves worming their way his own stomach then. But of course if anything had happened to _his_ family _Potterwatch_ would be celebrating it, not lamenting.

>   _It is with great regret that we inform our listeners of the murders of Ted Tonks and Dirk Cresswell.”_

“ _No_.” Andromeda’s voice was a hoarse moan. Tonks’s other hand flew to her mouth.

>   _“A goblin by the name of Gornuk was also killed…”_

 Andromeda reached over and grabbed Tonks’s wand, which was lying close to her on the table. She touched the wireless with the tip and the broadcast faded to silence, then she slumped back into her seat, shaking.

Draco watched as Tonks shuffled her chair closer to her mother then leaned and gathered the older woman into her arms. Tears fell wordlessly down the Auror’s cheeks and he watched as her pink hair dulled to a mousy brown. Andromeda’s guttural wailing filled the kitchen as her daughter cradled her close and stroked her trembling back. Tonks rested her chin on top of her mother’s head and squeezed her eyes closed, then started to let out gasping sobs of her own.

Wordlessly, Draco rose and stepped quietly out of the dining room, leaving the two to their grief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explanation of the name 'Almach Cottage' (note: not canon):  
> 'Almach' is a bright, golden-yellow star which is a constituent of 'Gamma Andromedae', a group of stars that represents the third-brightest point of light in the constellation of Andromeda.


	5. Mensis Ianuarius

Draco woke early the next morning, sweat-soaked and exhausted after a slew of nightmares about his mother being punished for Portkeying him from the Manor. They seemed to play on a continuous loop, though each recurrence was slightly different from the last. Sometimes, he’d had to watch helplessly as she was tortured by the Dark Lord and a faceless army of Death Eaters. Worse were the other times when it was him who tormented her, casting that petrifying _Sectumsempra_ curse which Potter had unleashed upon him in sixth year and laughing as blood gushed ceaselessly from the lacerations, flowing all the way down the cellar stairs... 

He lay staring at the ceiling until his heart had stopped thundering in his chest and his panic faded into rational thought. When he finally rolled over to peer at the sky through the window, the room had become significantly lighter. He was once more reminded of his wandless state (honestly, how on earth had his father managed?!) when he realised he couldn’t cast a Tempus charm to find out the precise time, but he knew the sun would be rising soon. It would be another day—the second of an indeterminable number—of wondering just how the Dark Lord had reacted when he had returned to find that Potter had escaped (along with every other prisoner they had held captive) and that Draco was missing. Were his parents even still alive? His mother was resourceful and cunning, but what explanation could she have possibly offered to quell the Dark Lord's fury? Every idea Draco had come up with was wrought with holes, so he hoped she had managed to be more astute than he, that she had succeeded in out-Slytherining a Slytherin.

It was then that Draco realised it was January 1st, that it was the beginning of the new year and the holidays would soon be coming to an end. But not for him, it seemed; he would not be boarding the Hogwarts Express again anytime soon. Perhaps never.

A new year, and a new... home. Not that he believed he could ever consider a place like Almach Cottage a home.

And Ted Tonks was dead.

He’d never met Andromeda’s Mudblood husband, just like he’d never met any other members of the Tonks family before the previous day. Draco didn’t know anything about the man himself, but his name had come up in conversation over the years when his parents had been disparaging Andromeda and her failings, his aunt's name sharp and acidic upon his mother’s tongue.

What would the atmosphere in the house be like this morning? He could only assume that Tonks didn’t live at Almach Cottage these days—since she was in her twenties and the interior of her bedroom positively screamed ‘teenager’—though he’d heard her late last night, had heard the faint sound of sobs coming from the other side of the hall. What would happen to him now after one of his own had killed someone so dear to them? Now that their husband and father had been murdered surely the Tonks women’s hospitality towards the Death Eater they harboured would cease. Yesterday’s assurances of safety would surely be forfeit; even if Draco was related to them by blood there was no real bond between them, simply the remnants of a family feud spanning two decades.

Death was no stranger to Draco nowadays. Over the last summer and during his mid-term stints at the manor he’d heard the sounds of people on the verges of dying at all hours of the day and night. He'd seen the life vanish from peoples’ eyes as the Killing Curse had finally hit them, watched their bodies stilled on cold stone floors. A few months ago—though it seemed like years now—the old Muggle Studies professor had been murdered just inches from where he’d sat as the Dark Lord levitated her above their dining table. He’d smelt death in all of its stages and how it seemed to cling to everything, become a part of everything. When the bodies were disposed of they didn’t need to be touched—they had wands, after all—but one time when he’d been alone, Draco had crept up to one and pressed a trembling finger against an icy cheek.

And of course, there had also been Dumbledore…

In a way, he’d become used to death—which wasn’t to say that the practices of murder and torture had ceased to disturb him; death had simply become less traumatic as he’d become more capable of blunting his emotional responses. Mourning however, that was somethingcompletely different. Mourning was foreign to him. His paternal grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy, had been the last of Draco’s grandparents to die, and Lucius had handled the matter with the cold fluidity of a business transaction. The rest had passed before Draco’s birth and during his early childhood, hardly memories. He’d never witnessed true grieving, not among his family, not among his friends nor his enemies. Blaise’s stepfathers died from time to time but his friend had always responded to the news in such a nonchalant manner that it could hardly be considered the same.

While he wasn’t particularly happy with his current living arrangements and he could hardly admit to liking his cousin or his aunt, Draco wasn’t above feeling some semblance of sympathy for their loss… even if he _was_ mostly concerned about the impact this could have on him.  However, he wasn’t sure what was expected of him now.

Feeling restless, Draco got up and showered, then returned to the bedroom with his towel wrapped around his waist. Not for the first time, he scrutinised his collection of hand-me-downs. Evidently Tonks and the Weasley twins had conspired to provoke him, he decided, scrutinising a crimson knitted jumper with a golden H on the front. Disgusted, he refolded it and moved it to the bottom of the pile, reaching instead for a striped green and red t-shirt. Perhaps it’d make him look like a Christmas decoration but that was alright. Better to look like that than one of Saviour Potter’s groupies. He pulled on the black jacket he’d been wearing the previous day so as to cover the Mark, and also a pair of faded jeans which were slightly too big around the waist and slightly too short in the leg. Eyeing the frayed cuffs in distaste, he rolled them up a bit after slipping the denims on.

He cringed at his own ridiculous reflection, mirrored at him from behind the wardrobe door. There was not much that could be done. Later he would take the time to sort through the clothes and divide them into piles: tolerable, perchance, never. Perhaps he’d be able to summon up an _Incendio_ using wandless magic and set fire to the worst of the rags. Wishful thinking. He wondered what had happened to the clothes he’d been wearing when he’d arrived, and decided to ask Andromeda later, perhaps after the funeral when all pertinent matters had been taken care of.

Deciding he’d procrastinated enough, Draco made his way quietly down the hall, determined to collect some form of breakfast and retreat to his room as quickly as possible. He didn’t know how the morning routine worked in this house and he supposed he wouldn’t be finding that out for a while; Ted’s death would surely rock the usual schedules. When he reached the kitchen he found Andromeda hunched over the dining table, clad in a dusty pink dressing gown and cradling a mug of tea. He froze in the doorway as he assessed her. Tendrils of her wavy brown hair had escaped her loose bun and hung limply by her face, her skin blotchy and puffy from crying. She looked tired and strained and he guessed if she’d even managed to sleep, she’d gotten little of it. Unsure whether he could face her after all, Draco was ready to turn and go back to his room. Before he could though, she raised her head and saw him. Her teary blue eyes met his and they crinkled as she fixed him a tight smile.

“Don’t worry about me, Draco,” she said softly. “Come in.”

He swallowed the natural urge to retort that he was hardly worried about her and simply nodded stiffly, shuffling into the room.

“Kettle might need re-boiling.” She mumbled, tracing a finger over the rim of her mug.

“Alright.” Draco moved behind the counter and approached the kettle. He examined it for a moment, trailing a finger over the cable which plugged the device into the wall. “Uh…”

“Oh!” she stood up. “Of course. Let me show you.”

He stood there rigidly as she came up beside him, feeling awkward and defensive for needing this woman’s help, both because he was interrupting her grieving and because it made him all the more conscious of his own vulnerabilities. He was tired of being in debt to people and even if this was a minor service on her part, it still added to the list he’d been mentally recording.

With no trace of condescension whatsoever, Andromeda showed Draco the water indicator on the side of the kettle and the switch which needed to be flipped to start the boiling process. She opened a cupboard door, pulling out a mug for him. He locked his gaze on the sink, rather embarrassed that he hadn’t been able to work such a simple thing out for himself.

“I’m used to house elves,” he said quietly, his voice tight in self-defence, “and having a wand.”

She gave a good-natured shrug. “No elves here, I’m afraid. Ah yes, I never managed to ask you what happened to your wand.”

“It was left behind,” he said, deciding not to mention that the elf had disarmed him and that the wand was likely still in Potter’s possession, unless he had cast it away. “I’m… we don’t have Muggle things… thank you." He gestured to the kettle. Even though he resented the whole situation he had been forced into he knew he needed to convey some modicum of graciousness. It would hardly be wise to fall out of favour with his aunt now.

“Well, you can hardly know if you’ve never been shown.”

_I’ve never been shown because my family would never dream of having such an infernal device in their home._

He nodded politely, reaching for the kettle as it finished boiling and filling up his mug. He poured in a dash of milk, a teabag and two spoons of sugar, hesitated, then followed Andromeda back to the table. The two of them sat in silence for a few minutes, Draco locking his eyes on a whorl in the table as he sipped.

He didn’t know what to expect from the woman. When he thought of the Order of the Phoenix he immediately thought of Gryffindors. He thought of idiots like Weasley, the types who would curse first and ask questions later. But Andromeda was a Slytherin, the same as he; if she resented Draco more because of what had happened to her husband, she would exact her vengeance inconspicuously.

As he continued to watch his aunt from beneath his lashes however, all Draco could see was a sadness she didn’t attempt to hide. His mother would never allow anyone to see her in such a state… but then, he’d never seen her grieve. Would she be like this as well if he or his father died? Or would she continue to hide behind that cool exterior of hers, convincing the world she was impenetrable to pain?

Finally, Andromeda spoke. “There’ll be a funeral in a few days.” She sighed softly. “Under any other circumstances I’d want to wait longer, to retrieve his b– him… but I can’t, just in case…”

Draco knew what she was trying to say, that time was precious and the future uncertain. That funerals couldn’t be delayed these days because no one knew what was on the horizon. That the war could intensify at any day. That no one could know when it would be too late.

“I understand,” he murmured, reaching out a finger and running it over the whorl on the table surface.

Andromeda sighed again, raising her mug to her lips then setting it back down quickly. She muttered a warming charm to reheat the tea before trying again. “Tell me about Cissy, Draco,” she said suddenly. “Tell me what she’s like.”

He tensed. “Mother…”

Draco didn’t want to talk about his mother; he was struggling to keep her out of his thoughts enough as it was after just spending the whole night battling the nightmares which had followed his fretting as he’d fallen asleep. His aunt’s mention of her name sent all kinds of emotions flying into him—nostalgia, protectiveness, sorrow, irritation at Andromeda’s insistence on using that old nickname as if she still had the right to, frustration for being sent here, and dread because she hadn’t come with him.

But he would indulge Andromeda if only to placate the discomfort he was feeling, his own sense of indirect responsibility for her family’s loss.

He took a hesitant breath. “Mother is attentive, she is kind, she is thoughtful. She… is the strongest person I know. She’s the only one who’ll dare stand up to Bellatrix, who’ll try to protect our family.” His aunt’s face had darkened at the mention of the eldest Black sister. “She… she loves to garden, and she loves… planning great elaborate parties and she…” He could feel the tears stinging his own eyes now. “She…”

Andromeda’s eyes widened in surprise as she took in his anguished expression. “I’m sorry, Draco,” she murmured, reaching for his hand, which he promptly shifted out of reach. “It was selfish of me to ask. Idiotic thoughtlessness. Of course you don’t want to speak about her to me.”

“I’m just—I don’t want to keep _wondering_ what’s happened to her, I want to _know_!” he exclaimed, angry tears making their way down his cheeks.

 _Stop this weakness_ , the voice of his father rang in his head. Glaring down at the table, Draco swiped the moisture from his cheeks.

“I understand.”

“You don’t! How could you?”

“How could I?” she repeated; her voice had changed now, tightened, and it stilled him at once.

 _Shit._ He sat back in his chair and looked up at Andromeda, shamefacedly meeting her gaze.

“How could I possibly know? Draco, my _husband_ of nearly thirty years had to leave me, and I have sat here for months, _months_ , wondering each day whether I’d be hearing his name listed on _Potterwatch_. I spent months wondering and waiting and not knowing a damn thing. So don’t you dare tell me I couldn’t possibly understand what you're going through. And now… _now…_ ” Her words died off and she buried her face in her hands.

Draco bowed his head, ashamed as he remembered he was talking to a grieving woman, “I didn’t think,” he whispered, pulling his emotions back into himself, tying them down and hiding them away the way they were supposed to be.

Andromeda didn’t speak for a few minutes, just sat there with her face hidden in her hands, her shoulders shaking as she cried silently. And then, she gave a deep sniff and lifted her head, turning red rimmed eyes on her nephew.

“What you need to remember, Draco,” she said, voice husky, “is that this war touches everyone. My husband may not have meant much to you—I know to you he was just another… _Mudblood –_ " at the word, his eyes flew up, taking in her penetrating gaze, “—but he was something to _us_. He was loved—by _us_. He was a _person_ and a damn good wizard who didn’t deserve to die, regardless of his parentage.”

Draco nodded awkwardly, fixing his attention on the whorl again.

“Mum?” Tonks entered the kitchen sleepily, peering at the two of them in concern. Her hair was rumpled and still the same shade of mousy brown as the night before, most likely her normal hair colour. She was still in her pyjamas, making her appear about the same age as Draco rather than seven years older.

“Hello my love.” Andromeda fixed her daughter with a watery smile. “Kettle’s boiled.”

“Thanks.” She approached the two of them and wrapped her arms around her mother, pecking her lightly on the cheek before peering curiously at Draco. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Andromeda said softly, her eyes also fixed on him. “Nothing.”

 

 

 

The funeral took place in Almach Cottage’s back garden two days later. The night before, Andromeda had suggested that Draco stay in his room until the guests had left and he was happy to comply—in fact, he'd been planning on doing much the same. He wasn’t interested in mingling awkwardly amongst Order members and supporters, people who he’d been conditioned to see as enemies, and who would feel likewise about him. Emotions would be running high enough; making his presence known at Ted Tonks’s funeral would only cause unnecessary trouble, trouble he wasn’t willing to expose himself to, particularly empty-handed.

So the next day, Draco stayed in his room with the curtains drawn, battling through one of the Muggle novels he’d borrowed from Tonks. He was still too proud to admit that he simply didn’t have the contextual knowledge to sufficiently comprehend what he was reading. However, at one point during the funeral service, he drifted to the window and peered into the yard through a gap in the curtains. The crowd standing out in the cold January air was small, though Draco assumed this had less to do with Ted Tonks’s affability and more with the difficulty involved in making the journey. Some of the people he recognised—Professor McGonagall, a number of Weasleys, Remus Lupin, Dean Thomas, Luna Lovegood. But the trio wasn’t there. Potter wasn’t there.

Draco had been thinking about Potter a lot. Hell, he’d always thought about Potter a lot, but in recent times, his thoughts had begun to drift down a more unfamiliar route. In the past, he’d always been fuming about the Gryffindor, dreaming up schemes to undermine the arrogant prat and his overstuffed sense of superiority. Wonder Boy—and his pet Weasel and Mudblood too—were the subject of many a daydream in which Draco would finally come out on top, would finally dismantle Dumbledore’s corrupt system of favouritism. And perhaps, before he’d been Marked, before he’d been given the job of killing Hogwarts’ Headmaster—something which was much more important than a schoolboy feud—his resentment, hatred and—he was loath to admit it—jealousy of Potter had come close to obsession.

At one point toward the end of fifth year, on a day when the dorm had been empty save for Blaise and himself, the other boy had interrupted Draco mid-Potter rant. His solemn expression coupled with an abrupt raise of a hand had startled Draco into silence; being disrupted was one thing, but for Blaise Zabini to have such a look on his face was both disconcerting and bizarre. Draco had squinted at the other Slytherin, lips parted in confusion as he’d taken in Blaise’s intense cocoa eyes and soul-penetrating stare. And then, voice abnormally low and grim, his dorm-mate had softly warned that his ‘fascination’ with Harry Potter was bordering upon neurotic, becoming dangerous. Draco’s jaw had tightened, grey eyes steely as he’d coldly informed the other Slytherin that he was out of line. Blaise’s eyebrows had risen towards his hairline but, before he could reply, the door to the dormitory had been flung open, slamming against the stone wall as Vincent and Greg trudged into the room. From there, the conversation had abruptly deviated to food, as it often did in their presence. Although Draco had turned his attention to his two hulking cronies, he’d continued to watch Blaise, noticing the other boy looking unconvinced and wary from the corner of his eye.

Now, almost two years on, Draco found himself continually revisiting the last moments he could remember from the manor, that apologetic glance Potter had cast him from over his shoulder, the one Draco wasn’t even sure had been real. If it had been real, what had caused Potter to look at _him_ like that? What had he seen in Draco; what had he wanted to say?

Draco hadn't done anything for him, not really. The clue he had given them in the cellar had obviously been heeded, but he'd never stated the information they’d needed outright. If it hadn’t been for Granger and that indefatigable brain of hers there was a chance they'd still be in the cellar.

But Potter had made it out of the manor alive in the end and Draco was glad. This had been a strange realisation at first, a stark outlier in the sea of anti-Potter sentiments he’d accumulated over the years. He’d questioned and pondered and waded through the conflicting thoughts circulating within his brain over and over again, and each time the outcome had been the same: no matter his own thoughts on blood superiority, he could hardly support a future spent on his knees before the Dark Lord. It was unnatural; Malfoys were _not_ supposed to kneel.

His time in isolation had led him to ponder: what benefit did he gain from serving a lord who seemed to prioritise his own immortality and his fixation with killing Potter above all else, a lord whose direction had seemingly deviated from the one his father had extolled? Protection in exchange for blind loyalty and submission, exhibited by committing any and all of the atrocities one was assigned. Glory, if he pleased his lord sufficiently, and if the war was won and he happened to survive. Power, but always carefully constrained, and always conditional.

He was glad because Potter’s continued existence meant possibility, a chance that his future could diverge from the one he’d been promised by his serpentile overlord. Potter still being alive meant that the future—and _his_ fate, in particular—wasn’t set, and that was good.

But what did these realisations mean for him? That, that was what Draco found most challenging. Being grateful that Potter was still alive wasn't quite the same as supporting him and that Order of his, wasn’t the same as being  _on side_ with the Light, was it? Similarly, it didn’t make him a neutral party either, not after all that had happened and every contribution he had made.

Yes, many things were becoming less and less clear to him, and staying at Almach Cottage was hardly helping to untangle his thoughts. In fact, it was almost as if new ribbons of information were tying themselves into the immeasurable labyrinth in his mind.

Thomas had spent the night at Andromeda’s after the funeral. The only guest to stay apart from Tonks (who wasn’t really a guest, anyway), he occupied a room at the far end of the hall, one which Draco had yet to enter. Careful not to be seen by the other boy, Draco made sure to remain in his room until after everyone had retired to bed. Venturing out just before midnight, he didn’t linger in the kitchen, staying only long enough to grab himself a plate of leftovers and a mug of tea.

By the time Draco got up the next morning the Gryffindor boy had gone.

Draco had eventually grown tired of speculating whether his aunt’s feelings towards him had changed since her husband’s murder, and had eventually sought the woman out. The conversation between them had been stilted and uncomfortable as Draco had explained to Andromeda that he had never even met Ted Tonks let alone played a role in his death. He discovered that the woman hadn’t even considered the latter and had only briefly wondered at the former, and she’d accepted his detached apology with equal formality. At one point her eyes had grown misty but the tears never fell, her features promptly morphing into an expressionless mask which Draco recognised all too well.

He wasn’t stupid enough to assume that Andromeda’s acceptance was synonymous with forgiveness. They both knew he was hardly an innocent—he was Marked, after all.

When Andromeda had risen at the end of the conversation she had paused, fixing Draco with a steady eye before saying, “Your mother loves you deeply. No matter what has separated us over the years, she is my family, and with that so are you. You will have my protection for as long as I can offer it. I only hope there is something in you worth saving, Draco.”

_“For as long as I can offer it.”_

Draco knew the insinuation behind those words. For Andromeda, ‘could’ did not necessarily mean ‘would’. If he played by the rules, she’d stand by him.

And if he fucked up, well, that was another thing altogether.

 

 

 

Tonks slept in her old room for another two nights. During the day, the three of them stayed inside and kept mostly to themselves. Draco was somewhat jumpy around his cousin, whose feelings toward him he found difficult to decipher.

She sought him out on the second afternoon, and when she stepped into his room, the purpose of her visit become evident straight away. Draco looked up, then closed the book he’d been reading as he noted her expression, eyeing his cousin levelly as she sank into the chair facing his bed. Her movements were slow and unhurried as she crossed one leg over the other then tucked a stray section of hair behind her ear. The colour had remained the same mousy shade of brownish blonde ever since the news of her father’s death had been broadcast over the airwaves. Draco watched her silently, waiting for her to speak.

“I’ll be leaving tomorrow,” she started, “but before I do, I think it’s important that we talk.”

“I see.” Draco exhaled and pushed himself up into a seated position, turning his body to face hers. “Well, I hardly need to wonder about the subject.”

Tonks acknowledged his statement with a quick smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “With all that’s happened since you’ve arrived there hasn’t really been much opportunity to pick up our conversation from that first day.” Her tone was clipped, professional; Draco presumed this would be a conversation between ‘Auror Tonks’ and himself.

Lifting a hand, Draco gestured for her to proceed.

“Remus Lupin is waiting in the hall,” she continued; Draco prickled. “Will you allow him to come inside so that he can be a witness to this discussion? Otherwise we can go to the dining room if you prefer.”

“Werewolf Lupin?” Draco asked snidely, receiving a slight frown. “How… _interesting_. Very well. Invite him in.” He leaned back against the head of his bed in an attempt to bolster his affected composure.

With a raised brow, Tonks rose neatly from her seat, leaned out the door and beckoned. A moment later, Draco’s former Defence professor stepped into the room.

Draco hadn’t seen Remus Lupin properly since the end of third year. Apart from spying him outside at Ted Tonks’s funeral, their paths had also crossed a few times since Draco had been Marked, though he’d only caught quick glimpses of the man each time. He knew little of the man beyond his affliction and his previous job posting. He’d discovered that Lupin and Severus were the same age—former classmates, in fact—despite the werewolf looking years older than the Headmaster. His hair was peppered with grey, his features battered; years of monthly transformations had evidently not been kind to the man.

“Lupin.” Draco refused to bother with honorifics.

“Malfoy.” The older wizard gazed down at him coolly.  He turned, guiding a floating chair to position itself next to Tonks’, then sank down into it, his amber eyes resting on Draco all the while.

Tonks resumed her seat. “Remus is a member of a committee within the Order which oversees accommodating and managing displaced persons such as yourself,” she explained before flashing a quick smile at her colleague. “He is here to ensure that this meeting meets the appropriate ethical standards.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Really? And is no one concerned about this being a conflict of interest?” he queried, gesturing between himself and his cousin as he pointedly turned his body away from the werewolf.

“Not with our families being estranged and the two of us virtually strangers,” Tonks replied, then sighed. “Normally such a thing would be avoided regardless, but there are limits on how fastidious we can be with a limited number of Aurors in the Order’s service.”

Draco pocketed that information away for later. “I see.”

The woman clasped her hands on her lap. “Alright. Draco, I must apologise for not doing this earlier in your stay. However, due to… what happened…” She paused briefly, lips pursed, but did not clarify; there was no need.

Draco eyed her expressionlessly; it was not the time to feel sympathy for her, not in the face of an onslaught of accusations and interrogations.

Tonks cleared her throat. “There are certain things I am obligated to tell you, things which concern your stay here in the indefinite future.

“There was some deliberation within the Order regarding your… status—how you should be classified, as it were,” Tonks continued. “You did not come here willingly, you have not sought sanctuary, and you did not get captured. Furthermore, you implied that you have not renounced your alliance to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I assume this remains correct?” She paused, as if to allow Draco the opportunity to speak; he remained silent. She exhaled, sharing a quick look with Lupin, who nodded as if to encourage her. “Consequently, it has been decided that you are to be considered a prisoner of war. You bearing this status means a range of responsibilities must be upheld on the Order’s part. Furthermore, it entitles you to certain rights, which I will now convey to you.”

“The Order’s trying to play by the rules, I see,” Draco drawled. “How… magnanimous you all are.”

Tonks ignored him, withdrawing her wand from her robes to conjure a scroll of parchment which unfurled in the air beside her. “The Order is hereby responsible for supplying safe and structurally sound accommodations, and adequate and functional furnishings. Andromeda is the head of household, and considered your custodian throughout your stay. Other members of the Order—such as myself and Remus, among others—will conduct visitations. If more people come to stay here on a similar basis to yourself, additional Order members will be instated within the house, beginning with myself.”

“Understandable,” murmured Lupin.

“You are to be supplied with essential items in the absence of your own, having access to adequate food ingredients, toiletries, clothing and medical healing as r—”

“ _Adequate_ clothing?” Draco interrupted. “Well, you’ve already failed on that part.”

Lupin ran an appraising eye over Draco’s attire. “I can see no problem with what you’re wearing, Mr Malfoy.”

“Well of course _you_ wouldn’t.”

“Draco,” Tonks interjected, her tone resigned. “If your clothing fits, is in good condition, is clean and is appropriate for the weather conditions and any activities you are undertaking, then it is considered adequate. One’s personal style preference is not a factor which is taken into account.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Well.”

“May I continue?” his cousin asked witheringly, turning back to the levitating document and proceeding before he could reply. “The Order is _not_ responsible for the following things—while you may be _fortunate_ enough to receive some of them, they are not your undeniable right. These things include being cooked for, the upkeep of your rooms, the cleaning of your personal effects, any fees you incur—be they medical, legal or other—with the exception of accidental or unavoidable circumstances such as illness or injury. Do you need me to elaborate further on this last part? If not, you can read it in full in your own time.”

He shook his head, wondering who on earth had developed this document.

“We’re not responsible for any financial losses you incur through… hmm, well, I suppose—I assume you aren’t employed?”

“I hardly think the state of my earnings is any of your business,” he replied archly.

“Not employed,” Tonks muttered under her breath. “Now, for your rights. To receive humane treatment, free from victimisation, harassment and intimidation. While you may be asked to contribute to your household, you are not to be forced to undertake tasks that are debasing in nature, or those which may put your physical person or magical energy at risk. When under questioning, you have the right to refuse Veritaserum. Will you be exercising that right today?”

Draco quirked an eyebrow. “I will.”

She gave a small nod, unsurprised. “When questioned by a member of the Order under both formal and informal circumstances, you are only obligated to state your name and your age. You are not to receive punishment—be that corporal, psychological or magical—if you refuse to provide any additional information.”

“Alright.”

“Speaking of magical.” Tonks shared another look with Lupin.

Draco leaned forward, hands resting on his thighs. “Yes?”

Lupin cleared his throat. “Andromeda has told you this property is warded, I understand.”

Draco nodded brusquely.

“The wards are multifunctional, serving to protect the house from intruders and _unwelcome_ attention. They also act to contain the house’s occupants, namely yourself; you cannot pass them physically or by Apparition or Portkey—save for those which have been individually tailored as exemptions.”

 _Mother’s necklace_.

“All visitors to Almach Cottage access the house via the Floo, which exists on a restricted network. You will not be granted these details. It is in the best interests of both yourself and the Order that you remain on this property for the indeterminate future; if you need to be relocated, any details regarding your transfer will be summarily expunged via Obliviation.

“I understand you have no wand. You will not be granted a replacement. If your wand is recovered, it will be securely stored. It would serve you little, however: the house’s wards have been altered to act as dampeners, keyed to your magical signature.”

“You expect me to keep existing as a, a—a _Muggle_? Your system is barbaric. What if I’m attacked?”

“It’s pragmatic,” Lupin raised an eyebrow. “Surely it doesn’t surprise you that we can’t simply allow you to have access to—”

“Barbaric.” Draco muttered again, and Lupin simply shook his head.

Tonks continued to synopsise the document once more. “Your future at the end of the war depends on its final outcome. If the Order prevails, you will be placed into custody at either the Ministry or Azkaban to await trial… or an equivalent location, if these are compromised for whatever reason. If the Order is… defeated… and you are still in our charge, you will be released via a one-way Portkey keyed to Gringotts.” She took a breath, eyes scanning the parchment beside her. “Now… normally, there is also the right for your family to be notified that you are now in the Order’s custody. However, since your mother was the one to send you here rather than you being captured, our need to inform them has technically been eliminated.”

“Good. You can’t notify them, I… I don’t know what my mother told the Dark Lord,” Draco appealed, cringing internally at his own desperation. “I don’t want whatever explanation she gave him to be contradicted. It could… she could…” Suddenly ashamed and anxious, his words faded off and he stared down at his hands.

Tonks and Lupin shared a glance. “Understood,” the werewolf said.

“There is one more right, and that is the right to engage in two-way communication with your family via owl. The Order is unable to honour this condition.”

Despite the fact that he would have considered this too risky anyway, Draco lifted his head and said, “So what happens if my family sends an owl to me first?”

“If—somehow—an owl from your family manages to reach Almach Cottage or an Order-occupied property, it will be directed back to where it came from, and any letters will be returned unopened.” Lupin responded.

“And how exactly shall I be compensated for this shortcoming? For the fact that I must simply sit around and wonder if my parents are alive or dead?”

Tonks blinked in surprise, then consulted the floating parchment. “You… won’t. You can’t—we can’t; they’re established members of the opposing belligerent force.”

“Indeed,” he drawled, “and are you paraphrasing or postulating right now, Nymphadora? I trust you’re aware that my mother is in fact, not a Death Eater?”

She flushed, glancing at Lupin, who spoke up, his tone mild. “Admittedly, due to your father being a known Death Eater, we simply assumed that your mother was Marked as well. It will be noted on this document that your mother is merely a supporter of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his cause, though in lieu of physical substantiation. However, whether or not she is Marked, her position—her marriage to your father, her tie to Bellatrix Lestrange, as well as the fact that she has been sharing accommodations with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named _does_ create a conflict of interest on her part. Even if you wished to communicate with her alone, nothing can be done… not unless Narcissa makes a move to surrender herself.”

Draco growled in frustration. “Fine. Can we proceed? This is growing tedious.” He glanced between the hovering scroll and his cousin expectantly; Tonks rolled her eyes and flicked her wand, sending it into his hand.

She shifted forward in her seat. “My father’s body was finally retrieved,” she told Draco, her voice growing detached and clinical as she stared at a spot on the wall just above his shoulder. “I was called to identify him in the early hours of this morning. It is evident he died in combat, as did his companions—another human and a goblin—however, the identity of the culprit—or most likely, _culprits_ —is indistinguishable at present. We still don’t know the precise details of what happened. Although there was one survivor, the information they were able to give us was… unreliable.” Her voice softened slightly, her eyes flicking to Draco briefly before she looked away again. “My dad will be brought back to the house this evening and Mum and I will do the burning… say a proper goodbye, just be the two of us; the funeral has already happened, after all.”

Draco continued to remain silent, watching as her eyes, which were currently as cold and silver as his own, moved to fix on him once more.

“I understand there is likely little additional information you can contribute to aid in this case.” Tonks waited, unfazed when Draco shook his head. “Very well. My father did not die within the proximity of Wiltshire or Hogwarts, after all, and the incident appears to have occurred after you arrived at the Cottage. Therefore, it appears that, in this particular instance, you played no direct role.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, as difficult as it is to accept, many of the deaths in this war will remain a mystery.”

While the tightness in his chest had been somewhat allayed by these statements, Draco remained uncomfortable; it was eerie to be spoken to by his cousin in this state even if he barely knew her. The words ‘particular instance’ had also bothered him; were any insinuations weaved into that phrase or was it just dialogue?

“You mentioned conflicts of interest before,” she commented. “Does it surprise you that the Order is allowing you to stay here, in the vicinity of relatives?”

Draco shrugged. “To an extent,” he supplied.

Tonks nodded, considering. “Many Auror recruits never end up qualifying; did you know that?”

Frowning at the change in subject, Draco shook his head.

“An Auror’s role involves keeping one’s job separate from any outside interference,” his cousin continued. “That includes factors such as one’s political views, familial bonds, blood status… you get the idea, I’m sure. We must exercise consistency and remain professional and objective in all our dealings, rather than letting our personal biases get in the way.” Correctly interpreting his sneer, she added, “That isn’t to say all Aurors continue to perform their jobs properly once they’re qualified.”

Draco withheld a snort. _That’s an understatement_ , he thought derisively.

“As you know, you are not here as a prisoner of the British Ministry. I am no longer in their employ. Regardless, I—and the other Aurors within the Order—intend to treat your situation in the same manner as we would if we were still duty-bound to comply with the conventional ethical protocol.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you won’t be treated as a punching bag simply because you are in our reach,” she told him dryly.

“To do so would be in violation of Draco’s rights.” Lupin quipped, sending Tonks a wry smile.

“Well it’s nice to know that’s the one thing holding you back,” Draco interjected sardonically.

Tonks’s composed Auror demeanour faltered momentarily as she rolled her eyes.

For the next half hour, the two Order members continued to make queries about various aspects of his involvement with the Death Eaters, particularly his own duties, both within and outside Hogwarts, and the circumstances at Malfoy Manor. Draco took full advantage of his liberties, sharing only scant details.

“Alright. You’ve made it clear you were sent here against your will and we know you are a Marked member of He Who Shall Not Be Named’s inner circle,” Tonks said. “What remains to be clear, however, is the extent of your loyalty to his cause. According to witness accounts”—at this, Draco frowned in confusion—“you lowered your wand the night Dumbledore was killed, with Severus Snape doing the ‘honours’ in your place.” She paused, eyeing him contemplatively. “I’m sure such a move disappointed your master greatly.”

Draco prickled at the word ‘master’. But of course, that was what the Dark Lord was; there could be no skirting around it. What Draco had once thought would be an honour had turned out to be little more than slavery. For all his father’s preaching about Malfoys and their superiority, they’d ended up underlings to another. These lessons—and so many of the others which had been instilled into him during his upbringing—contradicted his family’s true circumstances.

Tonks appeared to be waiting for a response. “He was disappointed that I failed to kill Dumbledore,” Draco murmured.

“You received punishment, I presume?”

“Yes,” he replied stiffly, “though it was not as severe as I had expected.”

“Oh?”

“He’d told me he was going to kill me if I failed… my parents too, or so I believed. He obviously didn’t do that.”

Tonks nodded in thought. “Your master has given you reasonable cause to resent him.”

_Master, master, master. Your master._

Another frisson of self-loathing passed through Draco.

Noticing Draco’s tense expression, his cousin quirked an eyebrow before continuing. “Your father’s arrest following the Battle of the Department of Mysteries would have greatly affected his standing and your family’s by association. And then, because you couldn’t kill Dumbledore yourself, you still didn’t manage to redeem your family’s name in the eyes of your lord. The Malfoys have certainly fallen far in recent times.”

Draco glared at her. However, though her words could be interpreted as mocking, Tonks didn’t gloat or smirk; she merely gazed at him impassively. For some reason, this only served to irritate him further.

“What would you be doing if you weren’t here?” she asked softly. “You told me quite adamantly that you haven’t defected. But tell me what that really means, Draco. Loyalty, support—those things aren’t always black and white, are they? Are you still determined to regain the Malfoy’s standing? Is that your key motive, or is there another? Do you wholeheartedly support his vision?”

“I am loyal to my family,” he gritted out.

Tonks tilted her head. “Ah, yes. And in turn your family are loyal to the Dark Lord,” she surmised, “so no matter how you feel about his cause, you will do what you must. Am I right?”

“If it will keep my family alive,” Draco acknowledged.

“Mmm, I had a feeling you’d say that. During times of war people are often faced with difficult decisions, they often need to be ruthless… but Draco, the Order would not expect you to betray your family.”

He didn’t believe that was entirely true but left his opinion unvoiced. It didn’t particularly matter to him what the Order did and did not expect.

“Not defected,” she mused, “but not just a mindless follower either—I’m sure of that. It would be a shame for Azkaban to claim your life at such a young age…”

In Draco’s opinion, she was coming close to overstepping the boundaries of this code of hers. He stared back at her. Tonks didn’t say anything else; she let the threat hang in the air as she rose to her feet, Lupin close behind, his chair levitating gently into the air. Draco watched as they made their way to the door.

Before she stepped out she made one final comment. “Don’t let your father’s mistakes destroy your own life, Draco.”

That night, Draco stood at his window and watched Tonks and Andromeda, silhouetted by firelight by the property’s perimeter. Wands raised, they guided the fire towards the altar bearing the carefully wrapped body of Ted Tonks. As they watched the body be devoured by flames, they leaned into each other, holding on desperately as they gave their final goodbye.

Draco and Tonks did not speak again for the remainder of her stay.

 

 

 

On the third day after the funeral, Tonks returned to wherever it was she’d come from, promising to come back when she could. Perhaps she was on a mission—she hadn’t specified, at least not to him; Draco wasn’t trusted enough to be told such things anyway. Without her the house grew a lot quieter and at first the idea of sharing the space with just Andromeda unnerved him, but eventually he grew more used to it.

With the funeral over and his cousin gone again, Draco settled into what seemed to be the customary routine at Almach Cottage. In the mornings he would rise to find Andromeda in the kitchen already, preparing breakfast or sitting at the dining table sipping at her coffee. She’d granted him the kindness of cooking for the both of them, despite it not being required of her, as Tonks had said. He intended to return the favour on several occasions but it didn’t seem to matter how early he rose—she always beat him. Maybe she’d always been a light sleeper or perhaps it had only begun after she’d been widowed; the dark circles lingered under her eyes, rendering her permanently weary. Once or twice he’d offered to brew her some Dreamless Sleep, but she’d waved off the gesture with a small smile and a firm shake of the head. Despite his early endeavours to remain detached yet civil he found himself growing to like the woman and feeling genuine sympathy for her situation.

After breakfast they’d set out into the garden. Draco had learned that there was something altogether strange about the climate of Almach Cottage. When he’d glimpsed outside during Ted Tonks’s funeral the weather had looked typical for January, but on that first day outside, it had seemed anything but. He’d peeled back his winter layers, ignoring Andromeda’s gleeful expression and trying to hide his own bafflement at the lack of cold. He’d been unwilling to voice his questions aloud, at least at first, and when he had eventually conceded—albeit reluctantly—his aunt had simply winked and grinned.

“Insufferable woman,” Draco had grumbled to himself as he’d turned away.

Together, they tended to the myriad of plants, weeding, trimming and harvesting what was ripe. Draco had always enjoyed Herbology classes, particularly because of its connection to potions, and so found this methodical work soothing. It reminded him of times spent in the gardens at Malfoy Manor with his parents as they cultivated their own plants, when life had seemed so much simpler. In addition to magical plants, Andromeda had also planted a fair share of herbs and vegetables for cooking purposes. A greenhouse housed mandrakes and other similarly ominous species, though she typically managed that on her own. His aunt would chat as she worked, hardly seeming to mind that he only punctured her dialogue with the occasional comment.

It surprised him to find that he enjoyed listening to the woman, who talked quite a lot but never blathered, and was seemingly unbothered by the mostly one-way conversation. She spoke with a natural ease rather than a need to fill silences. Although his family had had many acquaintances, apart from Severus, Draco had never before spent much time on his own with an adult of his parents' age. He suspected speaking with Andromeda was quite different than any of those conversations would have been.

Once the garden was taken care of they would move to the garden shed. It looked unsuspecting from the outside but, due to wizardspace, was much larger within, the interior having been transformed into a well-equipped potions laboratory. They two would spend the rest of the morning alternating between preparing and preserving what they’d picked from the garden and brewing concoctions for the Order and the household. Andromeda was true to her word; the potions and salves they made were all restorative in nature, so Draco worked amicably alongside her, preparing bruise removal paste, Blood-Replenishing Potion, Draught of Peace, Pepperup, Skele-Gro and more. Eventually, they’d cease their work and return back to the house for lunch. Similar to breakfast, Andromeda did all the cooking herself, producing hearty fare that lacked the finesse of that prepared by Malfoy house elves but rivalled it in taste.

Most of the time Draco would spend the remainder of the afternoon alone, reading Tonks’s books. He mostly read in his own room but also sometimes in hers for a change of scenery, nestling himself in the mountain of cushions and dragons (though he’d never admit that to her). He also started to explore her music collection; at one stage, Tonks took him on a guided tour of her room, informing him that the rectangular plastic cases held items called 'cassette tapes'. She’d lent him a contraption which she called a 'Walkman’ which he could use to play the music. Although he’d initially been reviled by the idea of learning to use something so quintessentially Muggle, his own boredom and sheer curiosity had won out in the end. To his surprise he’d become quite partial to The Smiths—but only in the privacy of his room.

The Tonks household was so unlike the one in which he’d grown up. He felt absurdly traitorous but it was true; it was so much warmer, so much more _alive_ than the stark and impersonal Malfoy Manor. Andromeda was so similar to his mother yet so different. At times the woman struck him as the most un-Slytherin Slytherin he'd ever met, though he wondered whether that was a tactic in itself. No matter whether his aunt had such intentions, however, the contrast between the two sisters was clear. Narcissa was poised and elegant, her clothing clean and crisp and not a hair out of place. Andromeda shared her sister’s good looks but was more content to throw her hair up in a loose bun than a French twist, and more often than not had a dirt smudge or two on her cheeks from wiping her face while gardening. While Narcissa was aloof and composed, Andromeda—though an incredibly unruffled individual—typically let her emotions show clearly, something that Draco was slowly but steadily getting used to. He’d been trained all his life to wear a mask, to hide his emotions and his intent, and he knew this unsettled the Tonks women, who seemed used to being open and communicative about anything and everything. It confused Tonks in particular, most likely because her childhood had been so unlike his, while it likely reminded Andromeda of her own upbringing and the demands which had been set upon her.

 

 

 

One morning in mid-January, after Draco had been in Andromeda’s care for a few weeks, they were in the garden picking nettles to use for the Boil-Cure Potion they were planning on brewing.

“So,” said Andromeda, starting up the discussion as she always did, “who are the other Slytherins in your year? You've mentioned a few names but not all of them, I don't think.”

By now Draco wasn't as unnerved by her attempts to engage him in conversation. He rattled them off. “Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, Vincent Crabbe and Greg Goyle share... shared my dorm. And then Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass, Tracey Davis and Millicent Bulstrode are the seventh year girls.”

“Hmm,” Andromeda mused, nodding to herself. “There’s a lot of pure-bloods in that list. I think I know most of their parents, or know of them anyway. Of course, it's been years since I've really talked to any of them. We grew up in… similar circles, as you’d know.”

“Of course.”

“Where are your house-mates now?” she asked. “All still at Hogwarts?”

Draco stiffened, his hands pausing in their movement as he wondered that himself. “I’m… not sure,” he admitted slowly, cautiously.

Of all of them, he was the only one who had received the Mark, unless things had changed since the Christmas break. It wasn't usual for a student—particularly one who wasn't yet of age—to receive the Mark, after all. He knew Vincent and Greg lusted after a place in the Dark Lord’s inner circle and so carried out what menial jobs they were afforded by their fathers, unquestioning as always. When it came to the others, however, he was less certain.

Even though Blaise was probably the person he considered to be his closest friend, in truth this was a thing of the past; they hadn’t spoken much since sixth year. Draco had been trying to avoid being alone with him since he had received his mission from the Dark Lord but he was sure Blaise had known he was up to something, had noticed the change in him. Blaise kept his own secrets close to his chest, affecting a misleadingly eccentric personality for the most part to redirect the attention of others. But really, Draco doubted that Blaise would have taken the Mark; he’d always tried to keep his hands clean when it came to those types of affairs just as his mother did. In the first war the Zabini family's alliances had been blatantly neutral. He expected things would be similar this time around.

Draco had always been close with Pansy and things had become intimate between them shortly after they became Prefects in fifth year. Together they had taken full advantage of their new bathroom privileges, fumbling and experimenting at first, then developing their sexual finesse. In the end it had just been sex though; they’d both realised they held no romantic feelings for each other. However, they’d both admitted that if they were arranged to marry—something which occurred quite often in pure-blood circles—the match would be perfectly tolerable.

Draco had known Theo well as a child but they’d grown more distant as they’d aged with Lucius pressuring him to diminish his ties with the boy. Like Lucius and Vincent and Greg’s fathers, Nott Sr. was a Death Eater who’d managed to avoid being convicted after the first war. Regardless, his reputation in the greater wizarding community was highly unfavourable and Lucius did not want the Malfoy image being tarnished by associating with him. Distancing himself from Theo had been difficult for Draco; the boy had always been a good friend to him. Due to their closeness, he knew of the other boy’s anguish well; his mother had died giving birth to him and he’d never been forgiven by his father. Draco had also been born into a strict family with high ambitions but the difference between him and Theo was that Draco at least had always been loved. Comparatively, Theo’s upbringing had been troubled; Nott Sr. was a violent man who easily angered. He'd never witnessed him inflict any damage upon Theo but he had seen the aftermath of his fury... at least, until other the boy had learned to better cover it.

He was even less certain about the other three girls—Daphne, Millicent and Tracey. Daphne and Blaise’s closeness was almost excruciating; Draco found her utterly insufferable and avoided her whenever possible, a sentiment he and Pansy shared. And—in regard to Millicent and Tracey—although he got along with them well enough, they’d always been more acquaintances than friends.

In the past, Draco had prided himself upon his ability to collect information about other people. His father had always lived by the aphorism _'scientia potestas est',_ and he wholeheartedly agreed. However, over the last year and a half, that had become less of a priority. It was all too apparent now; he _should_ know more about his peers than he did.

“Have they chosen their sides, Draco?” Andromeda's words pulled him from his thoughts.

“Why would I know that?” he snapped, leaning forward to tug out a weed.

Andromeda shrugged and smiled wryly. “You’re more likely to know than most of the people I associate with." She paused, seemingly questioning whether to proceed before asking. "Have _you_ decided what side to align with yet?”

He froze again, though he’d known this question would come at some point. He wondered how much Tonks had told her mother about the conversation in his bedroom shortly after the funeral.

“I’ve been Marked, you know that. You’ve seen the bloody thing."

She sat back on her heels and sighed. “That doesn’t answer my question, Draco. Yes, you have the Mark, but your alliances can still change. The symbol on your arm isn't connected to the brain in your head. So, when the final battle comes, what are you going to choose?”

Draco sat back as well, wiping sweat from his brow. No, he wasn’t ready for this conversation. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be ready for it.

He shrugged. “Well I’m hardly going to fight my parents.”

“And what about us? Would you fight us? Would you fight me, Nymphadora… or, your Hogwarts professors?”

He blinked, realising that if he fought alongside his parents, all of those would be strong possibilities, ones that he didn’t really want to transpire. But then—

“I thought I was staying here anyway,” he drawled. “This is all hypothetical.”

“Regardless of _where_ you are, you should make a decision soon, Draco,” she warned. “You cannot hesitate much longer.”

He sighed, exasperated. “I don’t know,” he said shortly. “Do I _need_ to pick a side if I’m just going to be sitting here until the war ends, one way or another?”

Andromeda shook her head. “I suppose no, technically not… but you should know better than anyone that actions have consequences. Choosing to doing nothing at all is still an interpretable action.”

She stood, brushing the dirt off her trousers, then hovered there for a moment, staring down at him as she peeled off her gloves.

“I think that’s enough gardening for now,” she murmured. “You go and freshen up. I’ll make us some lunch.”

She left him there, kneeling in the grass, lost.

 

 

 

That afternoon Andromeda received a Floo call in her quarters, presumably from the enigmatic Secret Keeper. Draco could only speculate of course, since the door was always firmly closed with a silencing spell cast upon the room. Shortly afterwards, a visitor emerged from the room with her, the first to come since Dean Thomas spent the night after Ted’s funeral. It was an older male wizard who Draco didn’t recognise: tall and burly, his iron grey hair coarse and wavy with a beard that reached his chest. He was clad in the sort of Muggle clothes which seemed to typify the older generation—gaudy and highly mismatching. He wore shiny black cap toe oxfords on his feet, which was fine enough, but he'd deigned to pair them with a pair of orange and yellow striped long johns—and no trousers over the top of course—as well as a frilly white shirt and a long, fluffy magenta cardigan which appeared to have been designed for a woman. Draco had needed to turn away to hide his smirk at the sight of the man, who would have looked rather imposing if he had been clad in wizarding garb. The Malfoys had always at least attempted to appear convincing on the rare occasion where they had been required to emulate Muggles; Draco didn’t think it was _that_ difficult.

The visitor grunted a greeting to Draco upon his arrival, eyeballing him suspiciously all the while. Draco knew he bore a glaring resemblance to his father so stood there stiffly, expecting a verbal tongue-lashing which never came. In fact, the other man ignored him over the duration of his stay, taking his meals in his own quarters and sleeping for most of the day. It was the first person he’d seen face-to-face in weeks other than his aunt, his cousin and Lupin—who had only returned sporadically—and the experience had been disheartening to say the least. The fact that he suddenly craved the company of others seemed strange indeed.

 

 

 

One rainy evening a week after the bearded wizard had left, Draco was seated in Andromeda’s living room watching what he still referred to in his mind as her ‘Muggle Box’. At first he’d made a point to avoid the television, trying to ignore the sounds coming from it as he sat resolutely in the kitchen with his back turned. But, the same as with everything else so far, his curiosity had gotten the better of him. And, the same as with everything else so far, he had been pleasantly surprised.

Andromeda had come into the room an hour earlier, informing him that she’d been summoned to Headquarters and that she likely wouldn’t return until late that night. Before heading for the Floo she had reminded him of the leftover lasagne in the fridge for dinner; Draco, having become adept at operating the microwave, hadn’t been flummoxed by the information and had simply nodded.

He was watching an episode of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ , a series he had grown shamefully addicted to, partially because of its hilarious inaccuracies and partially because it a more tolerable glimpse into Muggle culture than most of the other shows he had come across. Halfway through, however, he was interrupted a loud crash sounding from Andromeda's room. Someone had arrived through the Floo and surely it wasn't his aunt—she’d never been that ungraceful.

Leaving the television running, Draco quickly made his way down the hallway as quietly as he could. Perhaps Andromeda had brought a new visitor back with her… but then again, he couldn't hear their voices. He knew there was no silencing spell to muffle conversation—he’d heard the crash, after all. An intruder, maybe? Andromeda, Tonks and Lupin might have been adamant that Almach was sufficiently protected but the wards had been breached in the past, hadn't they? An intruder was unlikely but not impossible.

If there was an intruder, he would be useless against them, something which Draco had tried to make clear to the others on many an occasion. He had no wand to defend himself with, let alone attack. He briefly considered grabbing an implement from the kitchen to use as a weapon but cast the thought aside. There wasn't time and honestly, how long did he really think he could last before being disarmed?

Draco stopped before the door, listening intently. He could hear ragged breathing and footsteps approaching but it didn’t sound right to him. The movements sounded slow, unsteady; perhaps the person had been injured in the crash. If it was an enemy and they were hurt, perhaps he'd be able to wrench their wand away before they could do him any damage. There still remained a small chance that it was Andromeda crossing the room to the door but he didn't want to take the risk of calling out to her.

“Fuck it," Draco hissed to himself as he grasped the doorknob, waiting until it sounded like they were close.

He took a deep breath, bracing himself as he wrenched open the door. Then he froze, dropping the arm he had raised in anticipation, and simply gaped.

Before him stood a teetering Harry Potter, clutching his stomach as he wavered in the doorway, his hands covered in blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'scientia potestas est' = 'knowledge is power'


	6. Panthera Leo

It had been four weeks since he’d last seen Potter, four weeks since the boy had arrived at the manor and everything in Draco’s life had changed.

Seemingly, Harry Potter wasn’t quite finished with causing chaos.

The Boy Who Lived swayed unsteadily in front of him, squinting at Draco as if trying to decide whether he was real. His face was pallid yet it dripped with sweat. Despite it being January he wore no cloak, only a long sleeved shirt that looked as if it had once been grey. Now the material was stained dark with blood which continued to pool over the fingers clutching desperately at his stomach.

Potter blinked at him blearily, his eyebrows furrowed. “M..Malfoy?” His voice was faint and devoid of everything except weary confusion.

Draco forced himself to speak. “Yes Potter, it's me.” His words were slow as he worked to hide his shock, schooling his expression into a more composed visage as he allowed his eyes to rake over the Gryffindor’s figure. The git had obviously managed to get himself severely injured; with only Draco available to tend to him, Potter needed to be pacified, not feel under threat.

He stepped to the side of the doorframe in an attempt to make it clear to the other boy that he would be given safe passage into the house beyond. “You’re... you’re bleeding a lot, Potter… I think you’d better lie down.”

Draco didn’t mention that it would be him who would need to examine Potter’s injuries to determine the extent of the damage. Potter would likely ask after Andromeda, and explaining her absence would cause trouble and waste time which couldn’t be spared. Draco needed to ensure his compliance for as long as possible and moving him away from the bedroom—and the Floo which lay within—was his first priority. He didn’t want Potter to become alarmed and attempt to flee.

Luckily for him, Potter was unexpectedly obedient in the face of his presumed enemy. He gave a half-nod and stumbled into the hall beside Draco. He turned toward the kitchen; this was either a coincidence or—most likely—the other boy had been to the house before. Draco pursed his lips, uncertain of how to proceed; he wasn’t sure it was wise for the other boy to continue moving about but he also doubted the Gryffindor would concede to being carried.

Potter was shuffling away from him. Before Draco could make a decision the Gryffindor threw a glance over his shoulder and slurred, “Hey, wait... Malfoy, why are you—” and then his words were cut short as he pitched sideways.

Draco's Seeker reflexes proved intact as he managed to grab a hold of Potter, staggering under the other boy’s weight as he only just prevented him from cracking his skull into the wall. He carefully guided Potter down to the ground then turned him onto his back. It was then that Draco realised he had lost consciousness.

“Fuck,” Draco muttered. “ _Fuck_.”

He knelt beside Potter, tearing his shirt from the collar down. One by one, Draco gingerly pried away the hands which were still pressed against his middle so as to cautiously peel away the blood-soaked fabric. Crimson trickled over his fingers and Draco took a sharp breath as he saw it—a large jagged gash across Potter’s stomach.

“ _Fuck_!” Draco hissed again as he pushed Potter's hands back over the wound, pressing down with one of his own to create additional pressure. He tugged his own shirt off with his other hand, some of the buttons tearing off and bouncing across the floor in his hurriedness. He replaced his and Potter’s hands with the balled up material, watching in dismay for a few seconds as the blood started to seep into the fabric. He cursed his past self for not making more effort to finish the healing book he’d been reading at the manor.

Taking a deep breath, Draco forced himself to pause for a few seconds so he could put the situation into perspective. He wasn’t going allow himself to be responsible for the Chosen One’s death, not on top of everything else he could be accused of. He needed to act. He needed magic; he needed a wand.

 _Potter has a wand_.

There was a chance that he wouldn’t be able to perform magic due to the dampeners within the wards, but he had to try. Using his free hand, Draco pulled the wand from the holster at Potter’s hip, gasping at the familiar touch of hawthorn as it made contact with his skin. Potter didn’t even have his own wand with him! Of the five wands he had caught that morning in the drawing room he’d kept Draco’s for his own.

_Now what?_

He knew that Severus had performed some kind of spell on him after the incident in sixth year when Potter had practically sliced his chest to ribbons. Such a spell could come in handy now… except of course, he’d barely been conscious at the time and he’d never been taught the words.

Draco abruptly pushed those memories away. He didn’t know the spell, and that was that. He would need to clean Potter's wound as best as he could, then summon and apply dittany. Once that part was completed he’d need to get Potter to imbibe a vial of Blood-Replenishing potion. He didn’t have enough time or expertise to do much more than that—all he could do was attempt a temporary fix. Draco was nowhere near capable enough to even attempt to heal a perforated bowel or ruptured spleen; hopefully he wasn’t suffering organ damage. If it came to that, well… hopefully Andromeda was a more proficient healer than he or if not, someone in the Order could help.

It was fortunate that his wand responded to him as well as it ever had. Draco wasted no time, quickly removing his own blood-stained shirt from Potter’s midsection so he could cast a cleaning charm over the wound. He summoned dittany, pressing it between the parts of skin with trembling fingers. Cutting away the rest of Potter's shirt with a Severing Charm, he summoned a clean bandage to apply to the boy's abdomen, casting _Mobilicorpus_ to raise Potter a few inches off the ground so the he could complete the wrapping process more easily. As he moved, he noted with relief that the wound was already starting to heal thanks to the dittany—though he'd need to keep a careful eye on it.

He guided Potter’s levitating body down the hall to his bedroom. Once Potter was on the bed Draco performed the cleaning charm over the rest of him, clearing away the excess blood from his bare torso, arms and hands. There didn’t seem to be any other fresh wounds, though there were older bruises and scrapes scattered over his body. He considered them with brief curiosity before returning to the task at hand. He slid off Potter’s shoes, socks and jeans, then performed a refreshing charm on the boy’s underpants—there were boundaries Draco refused to cross, after all—before dressing him in a pair of clean pyjamas. He pulled the blankets over him, casting an extra warming charm on the covers, then summoned a vial of Blood-Replenishing Potion. He'd never administered a potion to an unconscious wizard before but the part he’d covered in the healing book had discussed the methodology. Absently, he made a note to ask Andromeda about obtaining more books for future study.

Some of the potion spilled over Potter’s lips and down his chin as Draco massaged his throat but most of it was swallowed. Banishing the empty vial, he dimmed the lights, cast a cleaning charm over his own blood-and-sweat-stained body, then sank into the chair beside the bed to wait.

As his eyelids grew heavy and the last vestiges of cognisance were swept away, it occurred to Draco that he’d had no problem performing magic at all.

 

 

Draco awoke to Andromeda gently shaking his shoulder. She was still clad in her travelling cloak; she must have only just returned from Headquarters. He groaned, feeling the stiff ache in his neck muscles from his unnatural sleeping position.

“Why is Harry here, Draco? What happened?” she whispered, gesturing to Potter, who was still sleeping, his face tilted towards them.

“Potter… came through the Floo, covered in blood. Then he collapsed… unconscious. Not sure what happened to him. I cleaned his wound… huge cut in his stomach… applied dittany… put him in bed.”

"But through the Floo?" Andromeda murmured to herself, perplexed. "How can that be?"

Draco wondered at her confusion but chose to ignore it. “I… I did what I could but I think… you’ll need to examine him. I haven’t the experience to check for internal damage.”

Andromeda hummed to herself as she moved over to Potter and cast a diagnostic charm upon his still form. “Well… from what I can see, things look sound enough. However, I will make need to make contact with an acquaintance who’ll be able to perform a more comprehensive diagnosis.” Her voice faded as she stepped away from Potter and began to mutter to herself. “He’ll need more Blood-Replenishing Potion soon, among other things... and we’ll have to remove the bandage to check the wound, but I’ll wait until assistance comes… Draco?” Her attention snapped back to him. “I’m going to the Floo. Please keep an eye on Harry until I come back. If there is an emergency…”

Draco nodded, understanding at once. Andromeda’s room normally was off-limits to him when she contacted Headquarters but tonight he would be able to get inside the room if needed her. The Order depended on Potter, and his life was more important than a housebound Death Eater overhearing something they shouldn’t. His mind leapt further ahead as he realised they probably had a myriad of ways to ensure his silence if it became necessary.

Hand squeezing his shoulder, Andromeda fixed him with a small smile. “You’ve done incredibly well, Draco. I’ll summon you some Pepper-Up. I think we have a long night ahead of us.”

He accepted the potion—a half dose—with a nod of thanks, not mentioning to his aunt that his own wand was now tucked into his pocket. She’d work it out eventually but right now there were other things occupying her mind. He wasn’t going to surrender his wand until he had to. She strode out the room, leaving him alone with Potter.

Draco turned toward the other boy, gazing upon his sleeping form. Without the glasses, without the piercing glare and tension that was so often fixed upon Potter’s face—when he came in contact with Draco, anyway—he looked very young, very vulnerable and very pale. He didn’t look much like the Light’s would-be saviour or anyone of great import. He didn’t look like the arrogant twat Draco had come to know over the last seven years either.

Other than last month at the manor, when Potter’s face had been swollen and deformed, it had been a long time since Draco had seen the boy up close. Now, with no one around to catch him in the act, he took the time to take his fill. Potter had always been smaller than most of the other boys in their year; he was physically fit due to years of Quidditch training but he’d still been slight in comparison to the rest of them. It seemed as if the past months had been hard on him; now, he looked to be almost dangerously thin, all sharp angles, his cheekbones more prominent than in Draco’s memory. It hadn’t been heaviness which had caused Draco to stagger beneath Potter’s weight when he’d collapsed; he’d simply been unprepared to catch him mid-fall.

He stood up and moved closer, bending over the bed. The boy’s dark hair was as unruly as ever and looked to be in dire need of a cut. Some tendrils curled down over his forehead but the rest of it twisted and fell in all directions. Draco had a sudden urge to reach out touch it, to smooth it back and try to tame it, to stroke the strands between his fingers. Would it feel as soft as it looked? Potter's eyelashes, long and sooty, brushed gently against his cheeks, tickling a few faint freckles which Draco had only just become aware of due to proximity. Potter’s pink lips were parted, puckered slightly as if for a kiss. Light stubble dotted his chin, casting a faint shadow over his jaw.

Draco’s hatred of Harry Potter was unquestionable, but even he couldn’t deny that the prick was attractive.

At the realisation that he’d been admiring the Gryffindor—and extensively, too—Draco was hit by a wave of disgust which plunged through him and turned his insides cold. Jerking away from the bedside, he dropped back into his seat and hastily ran a hand through his hair.

_Potter is a prick, a self-important sanctimonious prick. The fact that he looks good when he’s sleeping changes nothing._

Had Draco simply been isolated from others too long? He was hardly fond of Potter, the boy who he’d once hoped would be his friend, but who had so publicly shamed him on that first day at Hogwarts. That boy, who’d been Dumbledore’s favourite right from the start, who’d always defied the rules so blatantly, so unapologetically. That boy, who’d always thought he was so much better than Draco and had always managed to prove it in the end. That boy, who hadn’t been foolish enough to make the same stupid decisions that he had but who was faced with being the figurehead of the campaign to rectify them regardless. The Boy Who Lived, who now looked like the Boy on the Verge of Death. No, Draco wasn’t fond of Potter; he didn’t like Potter, not a bit. But remembering that didn’t quell his urge to stand up and approach the bed once more, to caress that creamy cheek, to press a finger against that illustrious scar of his, to smooth his hand over that light crop of stubble.

Growling at his own idiocy, he sought out a means of distraction, picking up the book on tracking charms—one of Tonks’s Auror texts—which he’d started the day before. He flicked to the chapter on locating familial artefacts, lowering his eyes to the text determinedly. But—to his frustration—his attempts to read were largely unsuccessful: every paragraph or so he would lift his head to check on the other boy. Eventually, Draco gave up and simply sat and watched as Potter continued to sleep soundly. And he waited.

 

 

 

Draco suspected the woman who followed Andromeda into the room was a St Mungo’s healer by her persona alone, though it was hard to tell without the customary lime green robes. While his aunt didn’t bother making introductions, the suspicious glance the witch threw at Draco made it obvious she didn’t need to be told to know who he was. Even if she hadn’t met him personally, his resemblance to Lucius was uncanny.

Draco had always been told he was the image of his father, both in regard to his features and his personality. Once he’d been proud to have earned such a comparison. Now, however, the idea of being compared to Lucius—be it the current version or the former—made him squirm. Knowing what he knew now, it was impossible to consider it as a compliment. Feeling prickly and exposed, Draco gave a small sigh and wandered out the room, murmuring an excuse to Andromeda as he passed. A part of him wanted to stay and find out Potter’s prognosis, but a larger part needed to escape the healer’s accusing eyes.

The look which the stupid healer had cast on him had ripped open the box of thoughts he’d been desperately trying to keep locked. Consequently, Draco spent the greater part of an hour outside, sequestering himself in the potions laboratory in a bid to distract himself from the happenings within the house. Extracting flobberworm mucus was the type of menial task which Severus normally assigned students during detentions (not that Draco had ever received a detention from the Potions Master, mind). However, he’d recently discovered the task had a mysterious ability to soothe the frustrations which frequently welled within him.

He had been at Almach Cottage for almost a month and he’d still had no news of his parents. It was torturous not knowing how the Dark Lord had responded in the aftermath of Potter’s escape, torturous to wonder whether Andromeda and Tonks knew and were simply keeping it from him. Draco tried to keep himself as occupied as he could during the day to limit his ruminations. His nightmares haunted him enough. It wasn’t just that they were traumatic; he was worried they were hinting at a truth he wasn’t yet ready to acknowledge.

It hadn’t taken him long to realise that it was only his mother who died or was tortured in his drams. Sometimes his father had a featuring role, but he was either already dead or working against Draco and his mother. But he couldn’t bear to think about that too deeply, couldn’t couldn’t bear to think about the fact that every time he talked or thought about loyalty and protecting his family he was really just thinking of his mother, not the father he’d once worshipped, and not the shell which had replaced him. 

When he was finished with the flobberworms he went through the stock and retrieved several vials of Blood-Replenishing potion to take back to the house. Andromeda was sitting in the kitchen waiting for him, a mug of hot chocolate and a slim tome before her. The healer had obviously left. He raised one of the potion vials questioningly, tossing it to her as she nodded her assent.

“Thanks Draco. Harry’s fine for now, but he’ll need more potion in a few hours. Hot chocolate?”

He shook his head and sat down in the chair opposite. “So… what did the healer say?”

“Well, Harry lost a large amount of blood, and that sent him into what’s called hypovolemic shock. Basically, the amount of blood-loss from his wound caused his heart to become unable to pump enough blood to his body. However, the healer’s internal assessment supported what you and I both thought; there was no internal haemorrhaging found, and no organ damage either. It was very fortunate you were here and that you responded to the situation so well.”

Draco let out a deep exhale.

“She was impressed,” Andromeda added, “despite your—as she put it—‘sinister genealogy’.”

He scoffed. “Well isn’t _that_ just fantastic? I’m certainly looking forward to meeting more of these ‘acquaintances’ of yours if it’s always going to be such a pleasure.”

There was a touch of pity in her eyes as she regarded him. “It will take a while Draco, but it won’t last forever.”

He wanted to snap at her, to tell her she was wrong, that she knew nothing. But he didn’t. In fact, he suspected she knew all too well what it felt like to be instantly distrusted. Even if she had been disowned by the Black family, it didn’t mean the rest of the world had instantly separated her from them as well. However, their situations were somewhat different, weren’t they? For while Andromeda’s allegiance to the Light was well known, Draco hadn’t sworn fealty to the Order.

And then there was also the fact his aunt hadn’t been stupid enough to become a Death Eater.

“I think I’ll make some tea,” he broke the silence finally, standing up. “The Pepper-Up won’t let me sleep for a few hours.”

“And where will you sleep when the time comes?” she asked him with a smile, turning in her chair as she watched him prepare a teapot. “You gave Harry your bed. Did you forget there were other rooms in the house, perhaps?”

Draco paused. Yes, it seemed he’d had what Blaise liked to call a ‘Hufflepuff Moment’, not that he’d say that aloud. He didn’t think Andromeda would respond well to the term, since it had been her daughter’s Hogwarts house. “I suppose I did. No matter—I think I’ll just sit by the bed and read anyway. I’ll go find a bed when I get tired.”

Returning to the room, he moved one of the tables closer to his chair, carefully placing his mug and teapot beside Potter’s glasses, which he’d put there after pulling them off the other boy’s face. He glanced at Potter, who looked very much the same as before, then opened his book again, continuing to read until sleep claimed him.

 

 

 

Draco awoke to his room being bathed in the faint light of early morning. For a few moments he allowed his eyes to flutter closed, letting the memories of the night before wash over him. He opened his eyes slowly as he adjusted to the light, then raised his chin from its resting place upon his fist to find Potter staring straight at him. That jolted him awake properly.

Potter watched Draco from the bed, his green eyes narrowed into distrustful slits. Now that he was awake he looked much more like the tosser Draco remembered. He had raised himself into a sitting position and was propped up against the pillows, his hands clenching fistfuls of blanket. He looked sleep-mussed and pale but gaze was sharp and wary, and he seemed ready to leap from the bed if the need arose. Draco couldn’t tell whether Potter was preparing to attack or defend himself. He waited for the other boy to speak.

It didn’t take long. “What are you doing here, Malfoy?” Potter's uttered hoarsely, mouth curling in distaste.

Draco stretched languidly, his movements deliberately casual as he leaned forward to place his book on the bedside table. “I could ask the same question of you, Potter,” he drawled.

The other boy squinted at him, as if straining to identify Draco’s facial expression. Gazing back, Draco suddenly realised the cause for his struggle—Potter's glasses were still folded on the bedside table closest to him, after all. He criticised himself internally for not having noticed before now, then tossed them lightly over to the bed.

“Yeah, you could,” the boy acknowledged as he slid his glasses onto his face, not breaking eye contact, “but I asked you first. So, tell me. _Now_.”

Draco shrugged carelessly. “Andromeda is my aunt.”

Potter blinked, looking surprised for a moment, and then his face clouded with annoyance. “That hardly explains anything, Malfoy, and you know it,” he countered.

“They’re keeping me here for a while. Is that good enough for you?”

“It also doesn’t explain why you’re sitting by my bedside,” the other boy added.

“Seeing as this is _my_ room, Potter, I’d say I’m free to sit wherever I like.”

Potter let out a derisive grunt, his eyes flicking around the room appraisingly. There was little for him to see, and little which corresponded with Draco’s personal tastes. After a moment he gazed down at his clenched fists, brow furrowing in thought.

 _Don’t hurt yourself there_ , Draco thought snidely. He smirked. “So,” he said, filling the silence, “what brings you to my doorstep, all covered in blood?”

“Andromeda’s doorstep,” Potter corrected as he looked up again, fixing Draco with a sharp look of dislike. “And that’s something I’ll be telling her, not you.”

Of course. More Order business. More whispers behind closed doors and murmured Floo conversations.

“Fine, Potter.” Draco sighed dramatically. “I shan’t pry anymore into your saintly escapades—though I fear the suspense will be the end of me.”

Potter threw him a dirty look but didn’t respond. Apparently he’d gotten a bit better at controlling his temper—he hadn’t even told Draco to ‘fuck off’ yet, which was rather surprising. Instead, the other boy leaned forward, grimacing slightly as he threw back the blankets.

Draco jumped to his feet, moving to block his path. “Wait—just where are you going?”

“Where do you think, Malfoy?” Potter snapped. “I need to speak to Dromeda. You don’t honestly think I want to stay here chatting with you?”

Draco stepped closer, blocking Potter, who glowered up at him. "No, I don't think so. You almost spilled your entrails all over the floor last night. I’m not interested in having to clean up after you again."

"My... huh?"

"Your stomach, Potter," Draco remarked drily. "Did you not notice that it’s wrapped in bandages? I saw you wince just now; did it even occur to you to wonder why you might be in pain?"

Potter frowned as he reached under his pyjama shirt gingerly, his sharp intake of breath an indication that he had forgotten—or been unaware of—the severity of his injury altogether. “Oh.”

"Yes, _oh_ ," Draco echoed. "So, lie back down and stop being a prat."

Potter ignored this instruction and continued to sit stubbornly, eyeing Draco distrustfully all the while.

"Besides," Draco continued, "you’ll not be disturbing Andromeda just because you’ve decided not to be unconscious anymore. Whatever it is you have to tell her can wait until she comes to see you. She needs to get whatever rest she can.”

The suspicious look on Potter’s face faded. “What do you mean?” he asked, confused. “And why do you care so much?”

Draco looked at the boy in bafflement, wondering whether he was being insensitive in the face of his impatience, or if he was simply daft. And then it dawned on him. “Oh… you don’t know,” he breathed.

Potter frowned. “Don’t know what?”

Draco paused, considering. He didn’t know how close Potter was to the Tonks family or how he would react to the news, if he _was_ in fact unaware of what had happened. Was it really his place to say? But who else could tell him at this point, other than Andromeda herself?

He cleared his throat. “Ted… Mr Tonks, that is… he was murdered. The funeral was held a few weeks ago.”

Potter’s eyes widened. So it _was_ news to him. “Shit… I didn’t know,” he murmured faintly, bowing his head and squeezing his eyes closed as he twisted the blanket in his hands. From the way he reacted, he almost looked as if the news was causing him actual physical pain.

“Well, now you do.”

Potter's head snapped up. “What’s with the self-righteous attitude, Malfoy? It was your lot who did it, right?”

Draco’s mouth closed abruptly.

“Or did you defect?” Potter continued, eyes widening. “Is _that_ why you’re here?”

Draco didn’t answer. Instead he turned and moved to his drawers to find clothes to lend Potter.

“Simple question, Malfoy,” Potter continued from behind him. “Are you here as a prisoner or as a deserter or what?”

"What do _you_ think, Potter?"

“ _I don't know._ That’s why I’m asking, you prat!” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” he snapped in irritation. “Why does it bloody matter to you why I’m here?”

“Because it does, it—hey! Is that _my_ _shirt_?”

Draco paused in his digging, his hand still latched on the garment. Squeezing his eyes closed, he took a moment to swallow down his humiliation before pulling the entire thing out.

Potter raised his brows as he gaped in recognition. “That _is_ my shirt. Malfoy, why do _you_ have my shirt?” His tone of voice had changed and now, instead of sounding distrustful he seemed almost amused, as if he already knew the answer but was going to drag it out of Draco, no matter what.

“Tonks…” Draco hesitated, cheeks burning. He figured he may as well admit it to Potter now rather than have Tonks reveal the truth later on. His cousin would hardly be merciful. “I needed clothes. Tonks got me clothes. Some are yours apparently, some are Weasel’s, some belong to those ruddy twins. Believe me, Potter, I’d honestly prefer to wear Hufflepuff robes than your rags.”

The moment he finished speaking he cursed himself for blurting out that final sentence: what if Tonks’s robes were still in the house?! Luckily, the witch wasn’t there to hear him, and Potter was more preoccupied with other details.

The Gryffindor guffawed. “You’ve been wearing _my_ clothes, Malfoy?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I thought I made it obvious that I haven’t had much choice in the matter,” he said.

“Draco Malfoy has been wearing hand-me-downs! _My_ hand-me-downs!” Potter couldn’t suppress the sounds that burst from him then.

Of course, he wasn't surprised that Potter found it funny that he, a Malfoy, had to depend on the charity of half-bloods and blood traitors. However, even though the other boy was laughing at him, it didn’t feel as malicious as their past encounters.

Draco stared open mouthed at the other boy who shook uncontrollably, cheeks flushed and emerald eyes sparkling, and something about the sight sent a shiver of delight down his spine and he _hated it_.

"Stop—stop!" Potter gasped, pressing his hands to his middle, "It… hurts to laugh!"

“I’m not doing anything, you idiot!” Draco snapped.

“You… are!” the other boy managed through his laughter.

Draco’s lips formed a tight line as he watched silently, trying not to groan as he recognised the all-too-familiar feeling of something stirring within him _down there_ and _no, no, NO._

“Alright, enough!” he snapped half-heartedly, tossing the shirt at the boy, followed by underwear, socks and sweatpants. “Here, take these. The clothes you were wearing when you got here are ruined.”

“You've been wearing my underwear too?!” Potter gasped through his laughter, his eyes tearing with mirth.

“Oh, piss off,” Draco rebuked. "Lie down and stay there, alright? I'm going to get you some food so that you can take your Blood-Replenishing Potion without vomiting everywhere. Also, Andromeda will want to look at your wound before you can have a shower. However, _I_ will see if she is awake, not you." He stalked out of the room, leaving the other boy sniggering after him.

For once, he’d beaten Andromeda to the kitchen. For a brief moment he felt glad that he’d managed to convince Potter to stay in bed and leave her be. But then, his stomach lurched uncomfortably at the realisation that, despite his best efforts, Draco was utterly failing to remain emotionally unattached to his aunt and cousin. He wasn’t supposed to feel inclinations toward generosity and kindness! What would his father say if he knew how close Draco was becoming to the Tonks family, to his shameful Muggle-loving aunt? How would his mother feel that he’d come to care about the sister she’d cast from her life?

Biting down his internal conflict, Draco turned his focus to preparing breakfast for the three of them. Doing so was fine, he assured himself. It wasn’t altruism—it was pragmatic; he was famished himself. He filled the kettle and set it to boil, then placed coffee, tea, milk and sugar onto a tray along with mugs. He arranging a plate of honey and oat muffins before casting a warming charm over them.

“He’s awake then I take it?” Andromeda asked as she entered the kitchen, still clad in her dusty pink robe.

“He is,” Draco stiffly conceded, double-checking that his wand was safely stowed out of sight. He doubted she wouldn’t notice the warming charm but he still didn’t want to call attention to it.

She stepped beside him and reached for the kettle, pouring boiling water into the largest teapot. “And how is he this morning?”

“Obnoxious.” Draco sneered lightly. “He also wishes to speak to you.”

Andromeda’s eyes flicked to his as she noted his tone of voice, but she continued without acknowledging it. “Has he had any more of the Blood-Replenishing Potion?”

Draco shook his head. “Empty stomach.”

“Ah yes. I’ll take these,” she said, indicating the breakfast trays. “Could you go and fetch some Invigoration Draught from the lab? I think it’d do him well to have some of that too.”

Draco obeyed. When he arrived back at his room several minutes later he found Andromeda seated beside Harry, her hand clasped in his. He paused in the doorway, listening.

“Dromeda… Draco told me about Ted. I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

Draco frowned at the way Potter oh-so-casually referred to him by his first name, as if he’d always done so. Perhaps the Gryffindor was trying to downplay the hostility between them; Draco didn’t know how much Andromeda knew of their turbulent history.

Andromeda smiled at Potter and squeezed his hand, her voice soft and melancholic. “Thank you, Harry. It’s hard to hear about things when you’re lying low and not listening to the wireless constantly like Nymphadora.”

“Ron has been trying to keep up to date with Potterwatch… but we must have missed that particular broadcast,” Harry said sadly. “I really wouldn’t have caused you so much trouble if I’d—”

“Nonsense, Harry,” she interrupted briskly. “You’ll stay here as long as you need to.”

Potter nodded and he looked away, a regretful expression playing across his features.

Draco stepped into the room then, moving a little noisier than he normally would so he could make his presence known. Andromeda turned in her chair at the sound, her red rimmed eyes betraying the slight smile on her face.

“Ah, thank you Draco,” she said, dropping Potter’s hand as he handed her the vials. She passed them across to the boy one by one. “Now Harry, this one here is Blood-Replenishing Potion, and the other is an Invigoration Draught. But I think it’s a good idea if you have some food first else they’ll make you nauseous. Tea, coffee?”

“Coffee, thanks… with milk,” Potter said absently, holding the vials up to the light and peering closely at them.

“Worried I’ll poison you?” Draco asked as he prepared his own coffee.

Potter narrowed his eyes and placed the vials beside him. Then he froze, eyes flicking back to the vials. “ _You_ made these?” he asked warily as he accepted his mug from Andromeda.

“Oh yes.” Draco smirked, taking a sip from his mug. “I’ve been brewing with Andromeda every day. Happy to help.”

Potter paled, his eyes flicking to Andromeda who continued to sip placidly at her tea, seemingly unaware of the animosity infused into their words.

“Draco says you arrived with quite the injury,” she said conversationally, her eyes flicking to him. “Draco, you’ll be pleased to note that Harry’s wound is healing well.” Her eyebrows wiggled slightly, indicating the possibility that she _had_ noticed the coldness of their interchange. 

“I’m just glad I was here to help _Harry_ when he was in need,” Draco said, highly satisfied as he noted Potter’s expression of disbelief.

_He’s utterly transparent._

“So, may I ask what caused such a wound?” Andromeda continued, peering at Potter.

Dragging his eyes away from Draco, Potter swallowed, then nodded. “Yeah, um… I had some trouble after... well, a plan of ours backfired.”

Draco only just managed to hold back his snort. Gryffindors were notoriously shoddy when it came to strategizing. Even a know-it-all like Granger could hardly be relied upon to come up with adequate contingency plans.

“We had another run-in with Snatchers—though we didn’t get caught this time.” Potter’s eyes flicked to Draco quickly, then back to Andromeda. “We all Apparated… separately. We’d organised to each go to a range of different locations to throw them off and eventually arrive at the same pre-planned one. Except… except in the rush, I ended up splinching myself… uh, that’s what happened to my stomach, I guess. I made it to the final spot, but Ron and Hermione… for some reason they didn’t show up… and by then I was bleeding too much to keep waiting… so I had to come here.”

Andromeda gaped at him. “You managed to get here in that kind of state?” Although she hadn’t been on hand to see the boy’s wounds she had gleaned enough information from Draco and the healer to gauge the severity.

Potter seemed to misinterpret her awe. “I felt like I was going to pass out, and I didn’t have any supplies to fix the injury myself.” His voice was defensive as he spoke but as he fell silent, Draco noticed that Potter looked somewhat ashamed. He assumed this was either because the other boy was embarrassed by his own fallibility and recklessness, or because he hadn’t stayed and waited for Granger and Weasley.

_Typical bloody Gryffindor._

“You did pass out in the end,” Draco commented.

Potter rolled his eyes. “Yes, I did figure as much.” His expression grew solemn as he turned back to Andromeda. “Dromeda… you haven’t heard—”

Andromeda shook her head. “No. There was a meeting last night… at Headquarters.” They both glanced sideways at Draco before she continued, causing him to scowl. “But your friends didn’t make any contact with us.”

“I’ll have to go back to our meeting spot,” Potter said matter-of-factly as he pushed his blankets off him, trying to mask a wince.

Andromeda put a hand out to stop him. “No, you’ll do no such thing. You need to rest right now, Harry. You’re recovering from a serious injury.”

“I’m fine,” the other boy protested. “You just said my wound was healing well.”

“Precisely,” said Andromeda. “You’re _still_ healing; you’re not ready to be up and about. Regardless, it’s not safe for you to go back and look for them—you’re too important to take those kinds of risks, Harry; you know it.” Draco noticed Potter’s frown deepened at her words. “I’ll see if I can get a hold of Nymphadora so she can come and see you. Between us we can make a plan.”

Potter had opened his mouth to object but something in the woman’s face seemed to have changed his mind for he closed it abruptly. Another trait Andromeda and Narcissa seemed to have in common, Draco mused.

“Can I shower at least?” he asked at last. “I’d much prefer that than having to cast a cleaning charm.” The boy’s eyes sparked with vexation and his features were flushed as he gazed at Andromeda. His tone suggested only mild exasperation, however; Draco had expected his response to be much more vehement. For the second time that morning he was surprised by Potter’s improved control over his temper.

Andromeda tilted her head. “Finish your eating, Harry, and then take both of those potions,” she said. “Wait another half an hour and then if you don’t feel nauseous, you can get up and have a shower. Then after that, more rest. I’ll go and Floo Nymphadora and find out when she can visit.” Potter nodded as she rose and left the bedroom.

Draco knew that Andromeda had noticed Potter’s frustrated expression just as well as he, even though she hadn’t made any insinuations about his feelings. If Potter wanted to try and mask them she would let him do so, for now at least. She was a Slytherin after all; if there was something she truly needed him to admit, she had the cunning to coax it from him.

Draco sank down into the chair she had vacated and reached for a muffin. Potter looked mildly perturbed by the fact that Draco was still there but made no comment on the matter, staring down at his own breakfast. Although there had been an energy about him while Andromeda had been present, arguing his case had obviously worn him out; the dark-haired boy looked utterly exhausted now, his eyes dull and his skin wan as the redness in his cheeks faded.

They sat quietly for a few minutes, chewing their muffins and sipping their drinks. Draco didn’t quite know why he was still here with Potter; perhaps he just wanted to prove a point. Almach Cottage was the closest thing he had to a home these days and he wasn’t going to make himself scarce just because the Golden Boy had tumbled through their fireplace.

Another part of him was busy recalling the strange expression which had crossed Potter’s face at the manor before the house elf had whisked him away. He wanted to find out the meaning of it.

_“Are you here as a prisoner or as a deserter or what?”_

Stupid Potter.

He was a prisoner of war, that’s what Tonks and Lupin had said. But as for being a deserter, well…

 _Perhaps I can tell Potter that I’m simply a ‘reluctant guest’_ , he thought to himself sardonically. Though he pondered at the term ‘reluctant’. Even if being separated from his family was agonising, was he really reluctant to be out of the Dark Lord’s reach? Here, where he could tend to a thriving garden, harvest potions ingredients and brew? Here, where he was slowly developing a relationship with an aunt who didn’t seem predisposed to torturing and hurting him at every whim? Here, where he knew if he was awoken by screams in the dead of night that it was his nightmares, rather than the torment of captives?

Now that Draco had found himself floating somewhere in a sea of grey, somewhere not quite Dark and not quite Light, what would Potter say?

Finishing his own muffin, Potter reached across for another. “So, how long have you been here, Malfoy?” he asked, his tone neutral.

Draco raised an eyebrow; of all things, he hadn’t quite expected Potter to attempt to be conversational. Potter simply stared back, waiting.

He sighed. “A few weeks… almost a month, actually. Ever since…”

“Ever since…” Potter echoed, and then his eyes widened slightly as he realised. “ _Oh_. How did you—”

“Portkey,” Draco said shortly.

Potter nodded thoughtfully, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown.

“I was unconscious at the time,” Draco told him. “Mother sent me here… to protect me.”

“Really?” Potter’s tone was one of surprise, something which infuriated him immensely.

“Yes, _really_. Honestly Potter, does it really surprise you that my mother loves me?”

Potter said nothing. Draco scoffed. Eventually, the Gryffindor shrugged. “She just doesn’t seem very… loving.”

“Don’t you fucking speak about her that way,” Draco snapped. “Don’t you dare.”

Potter raised his eyebrows, seeming somewhat amused by Draco’s outburst, then changed the subject. “So, I gather you took your wand back since I don’t seem to have it now.” His tone was light, almost conversational. Draco saw through it instantly.

So this was why Potter had started talking to him. He wanted Draco’s wand back and wasn’t going to give it up so easily. The move had been almost Slytherin, _almost_. However, it was brash of Potter to move to this topic when Draco was so obviously vexed.

His hand flew automatically to his waist but Potter chose to ignore the movement, unstoppering the Blood-Replenishing Potion and raising it to his lips instead.

He drained the vial, grimacing as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then continued. “I’ll need it back before I go.”

“You fucking won’t.” Draco spluttered, outraged. “Use your own!”

“Snapped it.”

“Well, get another then!”

“I’ve tried,” Potter glanced at him, “but yours has worked the best. Besides, I wouldn’t think you’d be allowed to have it while you’re here.”

“That gives you no right to—”

“No,” he interrupted, his voice lowering, almost sympathetic. “No, it doesn’t. But it’s _important_ , Draco.”

Potter’s use of his first name stunned him into silence. He watched silently as the Gryffindor drank the Invigoration Draught, wiping his mouth with the back of his hands.

“You’re not taking my wand,” Draco informed him coldly. “Work something else out.”

Potter nodded, attempting to appear unconcerned, but his eyes belied the gesture. Draco knew for certain that this discussion would arise again. Perhaps next time he would involve others and of course they would take his side in the matter, even if the wand was _Draco’s_ property.

 _Too bad_ , Draco thought furiously.

The dark-haired boy rearranged himself in the bed, gingerly angling himself against the pillows. “So,” he resumed in that conversational tone. “Half an hour… are you going to sit here with me the whole time, Malfoy?”

Draco arched an eyebrow and stood up. “Hardly,” he sniffed, then strode out of the room.


	7. Perspectives

Tonks arrived at the house while Potter was showering. She entered the kitchen with a bright smile and a crop of brilliant ultramarine curls and passed the latest edition of the _Daily Prophet_ to Andromeda, who was seated at the table. When she reached over and ruffled Draco’s hair he scowled, but the gesture was more pretence than sincerity. In truth, he hardly disliked his cousin these days. The conversation he’d had with ‘Auror Tonks’ some weeks earlier was yet to be revisited and, true to her word, she had kept this alter-ego separate from that of ‘cousin Tonks’. Draco’s life experiences had taught him the dangers of complacency, however; he wasn’t naïve enough to believe that the discussion wouldn’t arise again.

Potter wandered into the room a few minutes after Tonks had seated herself. Draco eyed the pale blue t-shirt that he’d thrown at the other boy. Although Potter had said it was his, the Gryffindor was practically drowning in it. He hadn’t taken much care to dry his hair properly either, Draco noted critically, eyeing a stray drop of water which was slowly making its way down the boy’s temple.

Tonks grinned broadly at Potter as if everything was right as rain, and rushed from her seat to bestow him with a hug which was returned just as enthusiastically. Potter winced slightly in pain as he took a seat at the dining table but looked pleased nonetheless.

 _Typical_ , Draco thought as he watched the scene unfold.

“I thought I told you to rest, Harry,” Andromeda chided.

Potter smiled at her sheepishly. “I heard Tonks arrive—sorry Tonks, but you _are_ clumsy—and I wanted to come and say hello rather than lying about in my bed.”

“ _My_ bed,” Draco corrected grouchily, but Potter simply responded with a nonchalant shrug.

As Tonks and Potter started to chat, Draco rose from his chair and went to the kitchen to retrieve the kettle and tea-ware, passing a mug to each person at the table. As he received his own mug, Potter turned and grinned up at the Slytherin.

“What?” Draco sneered defensively as he dropped back into his seat.

Potter cocked his head to the side. “You know, I never would have expected you to be so… _domestic_ , Malfoy.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Potter,” he said loftily.

“It sure seems like it,” Potter agreed as he dropped a teabag into his mug.

Draco frowned as he pondered over Potter’s tone, but the other boy had turned to Tonks already, the two exchanging a significant look.

With an apologetic glance at Draco, Tonks rose from her chair. “Sorry Draco, we have Order business to see to.”

Potter stood too, not bothering to spare Draco a glance as he trailed after his cousin, the two moving down the hall to Andromeda’s room.

“Back soon,” Andromeda said with a small smile as she moved to follow the other two into her bedroom, leaving Draco to wonder at the words being spoken behind her closed door.

He sighed, fuming at the sheer inescapability of The Potter Effect.

Knowing the three of them would be in there for some time, Draco took his mug of tea out to the garden, hoping to distract himself by weeding. He enjoyed the process, having found that ripping things out of the ground was pleasantly therapeutic, particularly when he was feeling frustrated and resentful. While it served a similar function to flobberworm mucus extraction, the physicality involved in weeding was even more satisfying. However, that also meant there was usually very little which needed to be plucked from the soil on any given day, and it didn’t take him long to finish up. He filled a watering can and began to water the plants, deciding to proceed with things the Muggle way as per usual, rather than risk being caught with his wand. He took his time as he moved through the garden; there seemed no need to rush. He doubted any brewing would end up happening that day; Potter’s arrival had interrupted the usual routine and who knew how long they’d all be tucked up in Andromeda’s bedroom.

“You’re practically a Muggle now,” a teasing voice said from behind him.

Draco jumped in surprise, turning to see Potter, who sat cross legged beneath one of the old oak trees. _How long had has he been sitting there watching me?_

“I always forget how pleasant the weather is here.”

“Here?” Draco muttered to himself. “Where the fuck is ‘here’?”

“Well, that’s a secret isn’t it?”

Apparently Draco had spoken more loudly than he’d realised. He looked up, taking in the other boy’s amused expression, the twitching corners of his lips. Draco couldn’t work him out; the boy seemed to alternate between his usual cold distrust and this other persona. This casually mocking version of Potter continued to throw him off guard because it was so unlike the one he remembered.

Potter took a sip from his mug and gestured to a second one which was resting on the grass beside him. “Dromeda made us more tea. You all seem to drink a lot of tea here,” he added conversationally. “Oh yeah… She’s gone out with Tonks to try and find out what’s going on with my friends.” He seemed confident, unconcerned; if he was still worried, he was hiding it surprisingly well.

Draco lowered the watering can and pulled off his gloves. “And you remained here?”

“Of course.” The dark-haired boy blinked up at him innocently. “They told me to rest, after all.”

Draco snorted as he lay the gloves beside the watering can. “Since when do you follow instructions, Potter? And shouldn’t you be in bed, anyway?”

Potter smiled dryly and shrugged. “Well, I guess I only follow _some_ instructions.”

“The fact that you follow any is surprise enough.” Draco refused to allow Potter the satisfaction of thinking he was unnerved by these new interactions between them. He moved closer and took the mug Potter passed to him, but remained standing.

Potter smirked. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Malfoy.” Draco recognised the words; he’d said the same ones in the kitchen earlier that morning.

“Touché,” he replied, then sighed and settled himself down on the grass as well. Fuck it, if Potter wanted to play games, Draco would humour his efforts. Perhaps he could gain something from this as well.

For a moment Potter appeared surprised that Draco had ended up joining him, but then he smiled, looking rather satisfied. Draco chose to ignore it.

“So,” Draco said. “What’s the plan?”

Potter frowned slightly, his smile fading. “You know I can’t tell you that,” he answered, his voice held a somewhat accusing tone.

“Ah, of course,” Draco muttered. “I can’t be told anything.”

“Yeah, of course you can’t,” Potter pointed out. “You’re a Death Eater, remember?”

“How could I possibly forget?” Draco asked dryly, then scoffed. “What’s the harm? It’s not like I can do anything with the information. I can’t exactly go waltzing off to the Dark Lord with the Order’s secrets.”

“The fact that you’re stuck here is hardly a reason for people to divulge things to you though, is it?”

Draco rolled his eyes. Why the fuck was Potter being so rational, anyway? Of course Draco _knew_ why he couldn’t know anything, but that hardly stopped him from wanting to find out all he could, or from trying to weasel it out of Potter.

“So, do you still want You-Know-Who to win the war?” Potter asked suddenly.

“ _What_?” Draco almost choked on his tea, and a small part of him considered how appalled his father would be if he’d witnessed Draco make such an undignified response. _The old version of Father_ , he silently amended, _not the withdrawn and habitually drunk caricature which has replaced him_.

“You do know that for him to consider the war won,” Potter continued, “I’ll have to die, right?” His eyes sparkled mischievously as he took a slurp of tea.

Oh Salazar, those damn eyes of his were alluring. Had they always been so _green_?

Draco blinked furiously as he directed his focus elsewhere. “ _Merlin_ Potter, you almost sound cheerful about being his primary target. Are you mental?”

He was pleased to note that his response seemed to take the other boy by surprise; evidently Potter had expected Draco to provide some kind of snarky encouragement to go ahead and do away with himself.

Potter’s brow furrowed momentarily, then his expression sobered. “I’m not cheerful, actually,” he said, lifting his eyes to gaze out towards the fields. “It may not seem like it, but I don’t actually enjoy putting myself in situations where there’s a good chance I’ll die.”

 _Liar._ “Then why are you joking about it?” _And with me_ , Draco silently added.

The look on Potter’s face was strange; he appeared almost apologetic. “You know what?” He let out a bark of laughter; it sounded bitter, twisted. “I honestly have no idea. Sometimes I don’t really know how else to deal with it, the idea that in the end it’s going to be either him or me. It’s not the most fun subject… though turning it into a joke doesn’t exactly help either,” he admitted. “Hermione whacks and scolds me for it; Ron just gets pissed. It doesn’t stop people from looking at me with pity either.”

Draco’s discomfort was skyrocketing. This kind of honesty—and from _Potter_ of all people—was foreign and awkward and _strange_. None of his fellow Slytherins talked like this, not even Pansy or Blaise or Theo, once upon a time. And here was Potter, his supposed enemy, confiding in him, saying things which threatened to rock seven years of enduring presumptions.

Didn’t Potter have anyone better to talk to about this? Weren’t there legions of admirers hanging off his every word? Even if he’d lost his Mudblood and Weasel were, there was the Weaselette and Tonks and Andromeda and whoever else was on the other side of the Floo. Surely Potter would prefer to confide in one of them.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you such things,” Potter spoke up, as if reading Draco’s thoughts. “Maybe all the healing potions have turned me loopy.” He smiled sheepishly. “Maybe it’s because you’ve met _Him_. Maybe it’s because you know just how ruthless your side is willing to be to get what they want and ‘cos you’ve seen how bloody this war already is, and how much worse it’s going to get before it’s over.”

“Stop calling it my side,” Draco snapped. “Do you really think I have a side anymore? Do you really think they’d ever let me go back now that I’ve spent practically a month here? The Dark Lord has summoned me, time and time again, and I’ve never shown up; do you really think he’d _forgive_ a thing like that?”

“You can’t leave here though,” Potter pointed out. “I know a bit about the protections around this place. Not all of them, but I know you can’t Apparate. No one can.”

Draco scoffed. “Do you really think _anyone_ would give a shit about that? I’m nothing now.”

Potter continued to eye the fields, but his lips curved in a smile as if he was satisfied at his own cunning. “So the truth comes out at last. You _have_ defected.”

Draco scowled. “ _No_ , Potter. Were you even listening?”

“But you don’t have a side,” Potter remarked. “You’re not on our side.”

“No.” Rolling his eyes, Draco wondered how many versions of this tedious conversation would have to be entertained before the war was over.

“…I don’t know how I should react to that.” Draco was about to whip out his wand when he caught a glimpse of Potter’s face and realised the prat was still teasing him. He relaxed his hand with a sigh, laying his palm flat against his thigh.

This was a side to Potter he’d never seen before and he honestly had no idea how to react. It was much easier when the other boy was his typically predictable, obnoxious and arrogant self. He could understand that version a lot better than this one.

“So if you’re not on You-Know-Who’s side anymore,” Potter mused, “and if you _know_ he’ll kill you if he gets the chance, then you mustn’t want him to live through the war.”

“I guess not,” Draco grudgingly acknowledged.

“And so, you don’t want me to die,” Potter proclaimed smugly, using the tree for support as he rose to his feet.

Draco spluttered indignantly. “I _never_ said—”

Potter grinned down at him then turned without a word and made his way back to the house, mug dangling from a curled finger. Draco continued to sit, fuming as he ripped out blades of grass and tore them to shreds.

 

 

 

It was early afternoon when Andromeda returned to Almach Cottage. Once Draco’s infuriation had dissipated he had continued to busy himself in the garden, returning inside only when his aunt popped her head out the window and called to him.

“Nymphadora went home,” Andromeda explained as Draco glanced questioningly at the table—only two places had been set for lunch. “We don’t have any news yet on Ron and Hermione’s whereabouts so I’ve moved Harry into his own bedroom. He’s sleeping right now—” Her voice faded as Potter stumbled into the kitchen. “Or not.”

“Got hungry,” Potter yawned as he dropped into the seat next to Draco.

“You’re not very good at resting, are you?” Andromeda scolded lightly as she placed a plate and a set of cutlery before him. “I could have brought some food in for you.”

Potter smiled ruefully. “Ah well, I’ve never been good at sitting around and being looked after. I guess I’m kind of restless—I’m used to being… busy.” He glanced at Draco, who feigned obliviousness as he served chicken and salad onto his plate. “Tonks will come back if she finds anything out, right?”

“Yes, Harry,” Andromeda reassured him. “She and Kingsley have the list of places you suggested, and they will continue to search for Ron and Hermione.”

 _Kingsley Shacklebolt_ , Draco presumed, pocketing the information away.

Potter picked at his salad glumly. “I know,” he sighed. “But it’s not exactly going to be easy to find them, is it? We’ve been _really_ careful; that’s why we’ve been able to avoid the Snatchers for the most part. Back when we had that fight with Ron and he stormed off, it took ages for him to find us again.” Potter’s confident attitude—or façade, perhaps—from earlier in the day seemed to have disappeared.

“Typical Weasley,” Draco snorted. “It’s hardly surprising to hear he did something stupid like that. He’s always been somewhat lacking in the brains department.”

“Draco!” Andromeda admonished.

“Well, it’s not as stupid as going and signing up for the Dark Mark though, is it?” Harry snapped back.

Draco rose to his feet. “Fuck off, P—”

“No!” Andromeda shouted, silencing them both. “No.” She glared at the both of them. “I will _not_ tolerate the two of you trading childish insults. This is not the time for petty schoolyard rivalries. There are more important things happening right now.”

The two boys continued to glare at each other a few seconds longer but it was Potter who withdrew first, lowering his eyes apologetically to his plate as he continued to eat.

“Yes, Andromeda,” Draco grumbled, sitting down again.

His aunt’s eyes flashed dangerously as she assessed him, but finally she nodded and resumed eating.

For the next few minutes the three ate quietly, and then Andromeda began to speak again, the tension amongst them easing somewhat as her voice filled the silence. His aunt informed Potter that the healer would be returning in three days to check the progress of his recovery. Unless something unexpected happened before then, the healer was certain she’d be able to give him an all-clear. Andromeda would perform diagnostic analyses herself in the meantime so that Potter’s condition could be monitored.

When the boy began to protest about his friends she told him that regardless of whether or not they were found, he would need to stay at Almach Cottage until the healer returned so he could maximise his recovery.

“Of course if your friends are found before she comes back they can stay here. There’s plenty of room.”

“I beg your pardon?” Draco interrupted. “Granger and Weasley, stay here? Are you insane?”

Potter hid his grin behind a serviette. “That would be great, Dromeda,” he said loudly. “Thank you.”

Seeing that it hardly looked as if his aunt was going to withdraw her offer, Draco sighed in defeat and frowned at the Gryffindor. “Despite what you think, Potter, I actually value my life. So if this eventuates you better hold them back. I don’t want your disciples attacking me.”

Potter snorted. “ _Disciples_ , honestly? And I’m sure they’d find out that you’re here in advance of arriving, so calm down.”

“I wish people would stop being so willing to reveal my hiding place,” Draco muttered as he stabbed his chicken more viciously than necessary.

“Better for them to know you’re here than have them arrive and hex you, don’t you think?” Potter replied cheerily, earning a grin from Andromeda.

“Oh not you too,” Draco groaned as he noticed her expression. “Bloody hell, woman. You’re supposed to be _my_ aunt.”

“Oh hush, Draco,” the older woman teased. “Ron and Hermione wouldn’t do anything like that.”

“Well, perhaps you don’t know them very well, then,” Draco muttered, bending his head over his salad and pointedly ignoring them for the rest of the meal.

 

 

 

Soon after lunch, Potter retreated to his newly appointed bedroom—the same one which Thomas had occupied several weeks earlier—and slept until early evening. Following dinner, during which Andromeda thankfully managed the flow of conversation, the three retired to the living room to play a few rounds of Wizard’s Chess.

Early in his stay Draco had been pleased to discover that his aunt was a rather formidable opponent. That evening he had been even more pleased to discover that Potter was not. The Gryffindor made a few pitiful protests about his weakened condition interfering with his capacity to strategize before losing spectacularly to Draco. To Draco’s disappointment however, Potter seemed hardly fazed by the defeat. Already yawning, the dark-haired boy gave his apologies to Andromeda before making his leave.

Draco’s aunt listened to the sound of Potter trundling up the hallway and, once the door to his bedroom was closed, she turned to her nephew. “When Harry first arrived I got the impression the two of you might have a bit of a history,” she said softly, tilting her head to examine the board from another angle. “My suspicions were confirmed over lunch.”

 “What made you think it in the first place?” Draco asked indifferently, eyeing his own chess pieces.

“Oh, just general observation. Also, Harry told me,” she added dryly.

“Of course he told you,” Draco muttered darkly. “Well go on, what did he say? I’m sure his recount was highly objective and not one-sided at all.”

Andromeda smiled as her knight captured one of his pawns. “He mentioned a variety of things, mostly about Quidditch and other petty squabbles over the years… and he also brought up Hermione.”

“Granger?” He continued to focus intently on his own pieces, not liking where this conversation was headed.

“He mentioned that one of your more deplorable qualities—”

_Ha! I doubt Potter even knows what ‘deplorable’ means._

“—is your tendency to call her some rather colourful names.”

“Pardon? Do you mean ‘Mud—” and then he stopped himself, eyes flying up to meet his aunt’s cool gaze.

“Yes. That’s _precisely_ what I meant.” Her tone was frosty.

Draco winced. “Ah. I apologise.”

Andromeda scrutinised him dubiously. “What exactly are you apologising for?”

“Your husband… he was… Muggle-born.”

His aunt’s eyes flashed in frustration. “Ted’s blood-status has _nothing_ to do with this,” she told him. “You shouldn’t be avoiding the word just because you don’t wish to offend me. Masking your prejudices by attempting politeness in my presence hardly excuses the fact that you believe the term is appropriate.”

Draco opened his mouth to respond but she raised a hand to indicate she hadn’t finished speaking.

“I hadn’t talked with you about this yet because I decided it would be wiser to give you some time to… figure things out for yourself. I hoped that being separated from your family and your friends would give you an opportunity to get a clearer idea of what _your own_ views are.”

“A clearer idea?” And he knew what his views were; just because she didn’t like them didn’t make them non-existent.

Andromeda sighed. “Draco, you and I grew up in similar families—pure-blood, _old fashioned_ families. _And_ in addition, I was a Slytherin, just like you. I’m hardly ignorant to the types of things which are said by the witches and wizards who frequent these circles. And I’m sure you’ve witnessed some truly execrable things during the time you spent with You-Know-Who… I’m aware of the kinds of things Death Eaters get up to during their… _revels_.”

“I never—” He was cut off by an impatient wave of a hand. She still wasn’t done.

He felt as if there were worms wrenching through his gut as he waited, his upcoming move in the chess game forgotten.

“I’m glad to hear that, Draco. I didn’t want to have to ask it but the question has been on my mind for some time. But—and I’m sorry to say this—I _do_ worry. You’ve seen so much violence, so much horror directed towards Muggles, Muggle-borns, so-called blood traitors… and towards your comrades as well, I would presume. You’ve been exposed to your family’s prejudices your entire life; I’d guess it’s all you’ve ever known. It worries me to think you might consider such behaviour… acceptable.”

Draco remained silent, continuing to avoid her gaze.

“Draco?” He blinked and looked up at her.

Andromeda’s expression was unreadable but she was obviously waiting for a response. She had let him keep his opinions to himself for weeks, but she seemed no longer tolerant of his internalisations.

He sighed. “I don’t think that Muggles and Mud—Muggle-borns deserve to be raped and tortured. I don’t believe they deserve to die or that Squibs should be killed at birth. And personally I think the idea that has circulated about Muggle-borns possessing ‘stolen’ magic is utterly ludicrous. It is weak propaganda, nothing more. Is _that_ what you wanted to hear?”

She let out a breath and Draco wondered whether she’d actually suspected he held such beliefs. Had he really given her that kind of impression?

“But…” He swallowed, deliberating a moment before proceeding. “But that doesn’t mean I think Muggle-borns should have a place at Hogwarts. It doesn’t mean that I don’t support finding a way for their Muggle-borns’ magic to be suppressed in future generations. It doesn’t mean I think their contribution is worthwhile enough to overlook the fact that they _don’t_ _belong_.”

“Draco—”

“I’m sorry, Andromeda,” he interrupted, his voice steady. “Perhaps, as you said, it’s just what I’ve been taught all my life.”

He made to rise, assuming she’d want him out of her sight and quite happy to oblige.

“Wait. Stay.”

Draco eyed her cautiously as he sank back down, preparing for an onslaught of anti-Malfoy vitriol.

She sighed, running a hand through her loosely-bound hair. “Draco… I can’t tell you that your words surprise me. That would be condescending and dishonest since you know well enough that I’m hardly unfamiliar with your background. The reasons your parents gave you to despise Muggles, Muggle-borns, and likely half-bloods as well were the same reasons mine gave me, and the same reasons bestowed upon my cousins and school friends. I’ll hasten a guess that you haven’t really had close contact with many Muggle-borns—I know there aren’t any in your Slytherin year group—and if Hogwarts is anything like it was when I was there, you probably haven’t struck up many friendships with students outside of Slytherin. Am I correct?”

He granted her a modicum of confirmation, letting out a derisive sniff and tilting his chin.

“So my guess was right; you haven’t had the opportunity to develop any friendships with Muggle-borns? You haven’t worked with any of them on projects, haven’t heard about how they experienced crossing into the wizarding world and learning about magic, haven’t talked to any of them about their own culture? You wouldn’t have undertaken Muggle Studies—no of course not,” she commented, “your father would never have allowed _that_. So, I would guess your experience with Muggles and Muggle-borns is _incredibly limited_ , judging by your complete obliviousness towards everything Muggle in my house.” Her mouth quirked in a smile as she spoke the last sentence.

She was painting him a fool and she knew it.

“And how about your parents?” she continued. “I know that up until late, Lucius was heavily involved with Ministry affairs. Obviously he’d be in contact with all kinds of wizards and witches, even Muggle-borns. But did they ever dine at the manor? Did your mother ever invite them and their wives to those ‘great elaborate parties’ you told me she loves to plan?”

“No.” He glared and grit his teeth.

She nodded, unruffled by his growing hostility. “So these ‘truths’ that your parents—that everyone around you has drilled into you your entire life—they’re really just… well, assumptions, aren’t they?”

He raised his voice indignantly. “I—”

Once again, she cut him off. “I’m not intending to convince you of anything, Draco; instead, I want to try and understand as best I can. So…” She propped her chin atop her steepled fingers. “Indulge me. Which Muggle-born student at Hogwarts would you say you’ve had the most contact with, or perhaps, know the most about?”

It didn’t take him long to determine. “Granger,” Draco admitted reluctantly. “But you knew it was going to be her, didn’t you?”

“Mmm, I did suspect it,” she replied. “Now tell me—tell me what bothers you the most about Hermione— _specifically_ Hermione—having the opportunity to study at Hogwarts and learn magic?”

He frowned at her, suspicious. She’d told him she wanted to understand but what was her true intent? She’d already implied that in her opinion there was limited base to his views.

Andromeda’s features were placating as she raised her hands. “What you say will be kept between us, and I will reserve my judgement.”

Draco hesitated, continuing to wonder what his aunt could do with such information. But then, his feelings about the girl were hardly secret—it was just that his aunt didn’t know him that well. Surely if Granger were to find out what he said, she’d hardly be shocked.

“I hate… I hate her attitude. I always have. She possesses a sense of superiority which is both ill-founded and uncouth. She came along in first year, already assuming she knew all of the foundational information about the wizarding world simply because she’d read all of our prescribed textbooks. She seemed to decide _that_ was enough to render her an expert as, rather than making an effort to learn from those peers who had actually _experienced_ a magical upbringing, she proceeded to use her theoretical knowledge to school everyone else about a world that wasn’t rightfully hers to explain. She continues to be completely insensitive to our traditions, presuming the wizarding world should make compromises for her rather than the other way around. She argues that our ways are archaic and that our tendency to cling to our beliefs is unjust, yet she’s blind to her own biased insistence that hers are better.” He finished his rant and leaned back in his chair with a sigh, waiting, and also wondering whether it was too tangential to mention her stupid hair.

Andromeda didn’t say anything for a long time.

“I understand, Draco,” she said finally.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I understand,” she repeated steadily. “From the sounds of it, Hermione’s approach was a highly insensitive one. I can understand your frustration at such an attitude.”

He blinked at her, confused. “You can?”

She nodded. “But do tell me, how many years has it been since you’ve had a proper conversation with the girl?”

“But I—” Draco paused, taking in his aunt’s expectant look. “Years,” he admitted. “In fact… well, it’s not as if either of us are itching for a chat over tea and biscuits—”

“Draco.”

He rolled his eyes and gave her what she wanted to hear: the truth. “I’ve mostly just overheard her patronising citations… and argued with her.”

“Arguing? I’ll assume this didn’t involve any… respectful debating.”

He pressed his lips together.

Andromeda’s lips curved in a knowing smile. “I figured as much. If you were to have an actual conversation with her and proceeded to do so with an open mind, you may find yourself pleasantly surprised.”

Draco scoffed.

Andromeda cocked her head to the side. “Okay. Let me try this from a different angle. I’d appreciate it if you could save your comments until I’m finished.”

She waited for Draco to give some signal of agreement, proceeding as he nodded. “Hermione is a Muggle-born, which means that until her eleventh birthday she knew nothing about Hogwarts and nothing about magic. There would have been displays of accidental magic over the years of course, but they would have been explained away or ignored by those around her as such things typically are in non-wizarding homes. Depending on when and how her accidental magic manifested, she may have also been alienated by her Muggle peers, possibly even members of her family. Receiving the invitation to Hogwarts may have served as a temporary relief, a conclusive assurance that instead of an affliction, instead of something being _wrong with her_ , she had a gift. I say temporary relief, because after a while, reality would have hit her, and it would have hit her hard. She would have realised that this new and remarkable world at her fingertips would need to be encountered more or less on her own. She would have discovered that despite the concept of magic being completely new to her, she would be taking lessons with peers who had been born into wizarding families, peers who had been exposed to magic their entire lives. They would know the lore and the legends, the traditions, the rules. Perhaps they’d been allowed to practice magic in their homes, avoiding any accusations of breaching the restriction of underage sorcery as there were always family members who could cover for them. If they had questions or concerns there were siblings, or parents, or grandparents they could turn to. Hermione had none of these, only her parents who were as clueless about magic as she. Hermione only had books. And from those books she surely would have learned—for Hermione _is_ a voracious reader after all—of the various prejudices that exist in our world, particularly those concerning wizards and witches of Muggle heritage. So, in addition to becoming aware of her own disadvantages—of learning about our world eleven years later than the majority of her cohort—she also would have discovered that there are people—some of whom she’d be learning alongside—who believed that she truly didn’t deserve to be a part of the wizarding world at all. So what better way to prove her worth than to learn as much as she could and demonstrate it when she had the opportunity?”

She finished speaking and settled back in her chair. Draco blinked at her, stunned. Her words had rendered him absolutely and utterly speechless. He hadn’t thought about any of that before. It had never occurred to him to consider _why_ Granger acted the way she did, and why would it have? He’d had no wish to, no need to understand her; the fact that she was a Mudblood, a Gryffindor and a know-it-all had been enough.

“Why do you seem to know so much about Granger?” he asked finally.

She smiled and gave a small shrug. “I don’t really, but I know enough to extrapolate. I’ve got a bit of experience in this area, I suppose you could say. Back when I was at Hogwarts I enrolled in Muggle Studies. I was the only Slytherin in my year group to do it. Through the course I learned a great many things and although I enjoyed it, at first the subject overwhelmed me greatly. After a while I began to realise that these experiences of mine were nothing compared to those of the Muggle-born students, who’d suddenly been plunged into our own strange world. When I became a Prefect in my fifth year I decided I wanted to do more than just patrol the corridors and take points off students.”

“And use the baths,” Draco interjected.

Her lips twitched. “And use the baths,” she agreed. “I went to my Muggle Studies Professor with an idea and she directed me to the various Heads of House. I formulated a small group of peers—the rest of them were from other houses—and until I graduated I served as a mentor of sorts, helping Muggle-born students make a smoother transition into the wizarding world. Through getting to know them I learned a lot about their anxieties and insecurities, and the various ways they tried to compensate for those. I suspect Hermione’s presumptuous attitude was her own way of compensating for her own sense of inadequacy.”

“I see.” Draco didn’t really know what else to say to the woman; most of what he was currently thinking he wouldn’t dare speak aloud in her presence.

His brain kept spitting out useless phrases.

_Yeah, but she’s still a bitch._

_If she’s so insistent about belonging here, then she shouldn’t turn a blind eye to wizarding culture._

_I don’t care about her struggles; she shouldn’t be the top student, it’s just NOT RIGHT_.

Draco realised then that bizarrely enough, he didn’t wish to disappoint Andromeda any more than he already had. But in spite of this, he also knew he wasn’t prepared to make a willing attempt to radically change his perspective just to please her.

Although he refused to make his curiosity known, he was highly interested in finding out more about Andromeda’s choice to pursue Muggle Studies. Had she chosen the elective in secret? Had her parents tried to intervene? Surely they would have known; Bellatrix couldn’t have simply stood by while her younger sister pursued such a distasteful subject. Was this course of study the catalyst which had led to her disinheriting or had Andromeda always been considered the ‘black sheep’ for her more progressive views?

After a few minutes of allowing Draco time to think, Andromeda spoke again.

“Of course,” she admitted, “Hermione is only _one_ Muggle-born witch. But you mentioned she was the one you knew most about, correct?”

Draco didn’t reply; his dignity was bruised enough. It had become glaringly obvious to the woman that he knew next to nothing about his peers of Muggle ancestry; he didn’t need her to rub that in again.

“I get the impression I’ve given you plenty to think about.”

Draco glared at her, annoyed at her unwavering expression of calm resolve.

She reached over and touched his shoulder gently. “I think that’s enough chess for one night.” She stood up, resetting the board to its starting position with a wave of her wand. “I’ll see you in the morning, alright?”

Draco had planned to ignore her but as she reached the doorway his manners won out and he stiffly bid her goodnight. She stopped in her tracks, surprised by his utterance, then continued on her way.

Draco sat there a few moments more, then eventually rose and returned quietly to his room, casting a swift glance at Potter’s closed door before shutting his own. He changed into his pyjamas and climbed into bed, making sure to tuck his wand beneath his pillow. It comforted him to know it was there; apart from the month without it, it had been a habit that he’d kept to since fifth year.

He stared up at the ceiling as he willed himself to sleep, realising, perhaps for the first time, that he didn’t really know anything at all.

 

 

 

It felt as if Draco had only been asleep for a minute; the next thing he knew he was being jerked awake by the sound of screams. For the first time since he’d arrived at Almach Cottage, it didn’t fall silent as he was roused from slumber; it was _real_ , hoarse and etched with terror. He knew straight away that it wasn’t Andromeda. It was Potter.

Hardly allowing himself the time to think, Draco threw himself out of bed, hastily wrenching his dressing gown around himself and thrusting his feet into his slippers before reaching for his wand. With a whisper he cast a protective shield around himself and made his way to the door, opening it as quietly as he could.

At that very moment, Andromeda ran past his doorway, one hand clutching her dressing gown, the other holding her lit wand before her like a torch. She was hurrying in the direction of Potter’s room and not taking care to be quiet either, and the fact that she wasn’t creeping was somewhat of a relief. It was obvious she had more of an idea of what was going on than him: that there weren’t any intruders inducing those terrible sounds. Curiosity piqued, Draco followed behind her, moving at a slower pace to avoid her notice.

Draco stopped in the doorway, watching the scene unfold before him. Andromeda was bent over the bed, her wand—still aglow—abandoned on the blankets as she shook the Gryffindor’s shoulders, pleading with him to wake up. The screaming had quietened to a ragged pant at her touch, though Potter continued to struggle violently in his aunt’s arms.

 _Trust Potter to be so dramatic_ , Draco thought, stepping forward as the Gryffindor flailed and came close to hitting Andromeda in the face.

He’d obviously been less than inconspicuous; Andromeda ducked, casting a harried look over her shoulder at him as she gasped, “Stay where you are, Draco, please.”

Though perturbed, he complied nonetheless, eyes locked on Potter.

When Potter’s movements stilled they did so almost instantaneously, the boy’s body becoming rigid in the circle of Andromeda’s arms. His eyes flew open, green as emeralds and wide with panic as he stared into the woman’s face. Draco watched as Andromeda lowered him back down onto his pillows, Potter’s lips forming soundless words as he watched her. After a few moments, his head turned towards Draco and the look of dread amplified.

“Steady, Harry,” Andromeda spoke softly, reaching out for Potter as he tried to back as far away from Draco as possible. “You’re okay now.”

“I can’t!” Harry begged her, his voice hoarse. “ _I_ _can’t_!” His eyes were still rounded in horror as he gaped at Draco, the scar on his forehead angry and inflamed.

Andromeda glanced back at her nephew. “I’ll take care of things from here, Draco. Go back to bed; get some rest.” Her tone left no room for argument; Potter was highly distressed and she needed him to leave.

Draco didn’t exactly want to stay either, didn’t want to be a part of whatever _this_ was. But at the same time, Potter’s prevailing expression was all too disturbing and he needed it to be explained. While Draco’s own nightmares were undeniably torturous, he’d _never_ reacted to them the way Potter had just now. And, even if they seemed realistic at the time, it wasn’t as if his dreams actually held any definitive veracity.

“Draco,” his aunt warned.

Blinking, Draco backed into the hall, then turned on his heel and returned to his room. Whispering _finite_ to remove the protective shield he’d cast around himself, he tucked his wand back under his pillow and sank into the bed with a sigh.

He closed his eyes against the darkness, the image of Potter’s horrified face tattooed in his mind.

It took him a long time to go back to sleep.


	8. Est Libido Maxima Perturbatio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things become a bit more sexually charged here and in chapter nine.

_He was back in the Room of Hidden Things._

_Draco didn’t know how he had gotten there or why. He had already completed the Dark Lord’s task; there was no need for him to return. But the Vanishing Cabinet loomed before him, dark and oppressive, seeming so much taller compared to the last time he had seen it._

_“There’s something inside,” he whispered._

_At his words, the cabinet jerked and rattled as if something had thrown itself against the doors from the inside in a desperate attempt to break out. Whatever it was, it wanted to be released, and Draco knew he was meant to help because the cabinet had been his responsibility. But he didn’t want to help, not anymore. He didn’t want to find out what was inside._

_He was about to back away when a familiar voice tutted behind him. “Now, now, Draco. Hesitating so foolishly when you were given a direct command? I certainly taught you better.”_

_He spun around. “Father?”_

_The man stood several feet behind him, clad in an elaborate robe of dark forest green edged with silver. He was the memory reincarnated, the version of him which had disappeared behind Azkaban’s walls nearly two years earlier. He stared coolly at Draco, powerful yet composed as he stroked the head of the silver snake atop his cane._

_“The cabinet, Draco,” Lucius reminded him imperiously, frosty eyes holding a promise. “You know your instructions. To exhibit disobedience now would be wholly regrettable, don’t you agree?”_

_Draco recognised the threat those words carried and he turned back to face the cabinet once more. With trepidation, he slowly stepped towards it. Whatever was inside lurched forward again, startling him, but he didn’t stop moving. He reached out and grasped a hold of the handle, curling his fingers around it in a tight grip._

_All he needed to do was to pull the door open, but he was terrified._

_But then he heard the sounds: the hissing which permeated the room, and_ something _sliding over stone, and he knew the Dark Lord was coming. Panicking, he wrenched open the door._

_He fell to his knees, desperately reaching into the darkness with both hands and scrabbling until his fingers finally clutched hold of the thing inside. He made to pull it out, but it refused to budge. Draco leaned backwards to gain leverage and tugged with all his might. His efforts finally dislodged the thing—whatever it was—and it came with him as he fell to the ground, a heavy weight landing in his lap. Panting, he let go of his hold and looked down._

_He was too late._

_His mother lay across his legs, or what was left of her anyway. Most of her hair had been torn from her scalp, leaving patches of dried blood and skin behind. She was clad in filthy threadbare rags, her porcelain flesh degraded to a field of scrapes and bruises._

_In a blind panic, he grasped her chin, tilting her face towards him so that he could see her eyes… but only sockets gaped back at him, dark and empty voids._

_Oh Cersei, where were her eyes?_

_His father’s voice was soft as he knelt down beside him. “Such a shame, isn’t it? Turns out she was a Mudblood all along…”_

Draco’s eyes flew open with a start as he found himself within the familiar confines of his room. Sweat-sticky and breathing heavily, he leaned over the side of his bed and vomited the contents of his stomach onto the floor. He shuddered and dragged the back of his hand across his face, unsurprised to find it came back wet with tears.

 

 

 

When Potter emerged for breakfast, it was obvious he didn’t remember all of what had happened the night before. The way he’d reacted to Draco seemed forgotten as the dark-haired boy greeted the blonde with a brief nod, sitting down beside him without so much as a glare or second glance.

Potter did pale when Andromeda joined them at the table however, though no words were exchanged about the previous night’s events. He remained forlorn throughout the meal, picking idly at his porridge long after Draco and Andromeda had finished eating.

“There will be word of your friends soon, Harry,” Andromeda assured him, her eyes tinged with concern.

Potter just nodded and continued to slowly spoon food into his mouth.

“You’ll want to talk to Headquarters again today, I’m guessing? Speak to… some of the others?” She made sure to be vague with her wording in the presence of Draco; Draco wondered if she had ever realised her slip, that she’d mentioned Kingsley’s name the day before.

“Yeah.”

“You can call them once you’re finished, okay? Draco and I have a bit to catch up on this morning.”

Draco flinched at her words, at first thinking she wanted to resume the conversation from the night before. It had almost slipped his mind; what with Potter’s nightmare, the exchange seemed like aeons ago. Andromeda frowned at his reaction and then he relaxed, guessing she was actually referring to their potioneering schedule.

“Thanks.” Potter gave her a small smile.

Draco could understand the other boy’s anxiety. Their situations were somewhat similar, after all; Potter had lost his friends and Draco had no idea how his own family was faring. In addition, both of them had to deal with the knowledge that there was little they could do in the meantime except wait for answers to be brought to them. Whatever it was that had been occupying Potter during his absence from Hogwarts had been put on hold for the indeterminate future, and the Gryffindor wasn’t exactly the patient sort.

“Draco?” His aunt turned to him, interrupting his thoughts.

“Mmm?

“Perhaps it’d be a good idea for us to brew some Dreamless Sleep today? We’re getting a bit short on our supplies.” She glanced sideways at Potter as she spoke.

“That seems a bit hypocritical,” Draco said mockingly. “Seeing as the other week you were turning down my offers to make some for _you_.”

“I shouldn’t be having it,” Potter spoke up hesitantly. “I mean… the nightmares aren’t good, but… I mean…” He faded off and shrugged, looking incredibly uncomfortable.

“It’s okay Harry.” Andromeda smiled. “Neither Draco nor I are fans of taking it.” From the corner of his eye, Draco saw Potter glance curiously in his direction. “It’s highly addictive at the best of times, and now that we’re at war again it’s reasonably easy for people to grow dependent on the stuff. That being said, there are definite benefits in using it on occasion. It’s something we need to keep in stock and our stores _are_ rather low at the moment. It’s a good idea for us to brew more now, while it’s relatively quiet and we have less demand in general.”

Potter nodded, appearing somewhat relieved by her words. Watching the Gryffindor, Draco wondered whether he was used to having to defend his personal choices. It was likely, he decided; Granger always thought she knew best, after all.

Potter turned to him. “So you’ve been helping out quite a bit, have you?” His tone seemed interested, almost impressed. It took Draco aback, since yesterday the other boy had been highly untrusting of the vials which he had brought to his bedside.

“Somewhat,” Draco answered with an impartial shrug. “It’s good to have something to do.”

Potter bobbed his head in acknowledgement, his lips twitching into a smile which took Draco even more by surprise. Yesterday it had been strange enough when Potter had bestowed him with several grins over the day, and even then, the Gryffindor had been teasing him. Now the other boy looked somewhat pleased.

In an attempt to appear entirely unaffected by the other boy’s approval, Draco directed his attention to Andromeda. For a while, he lost himself in her recount of the adolescent Mandrakes in the greenhouse which had given them both absolute grief two weeks earlier. However, as much as he tried, he found it difficult to pay attention for long; other thoughts started to get in the way.

Most of them involved Potter.

After breakfast Potter went into Andromeda’s room to speak to whoever it was he communicated with at Headquarters. Meanwhile, Draco and Andromeda returned to their normal routine outside. Side by side, they prepared new batches of Dreamless Sleep in silence, and although the previous night’s conversation went unmentioned, Draco could sense a tension between them which hadn’t been there before. It was clear now the two of them were alone—the way his aunt’s stance was stiffer than usual, how she would look towards him but not directly at him. The way she had treated him in the kitchen at breakfast had been an act, a display for Potter’s benefit. It was oh so very Slytherin of course; snakes handled their disputes in private.

Although Andromeda had approached last night’s discussion calmly and rationally and had endeavoured to understand his perspective, Draco knew she was deeply bothered by his mindset. He had nothing against the man who had been Ted Tonks per se; he’d never even met him. But despite this, he had managed to indirectly offend his aunt, her husband, and their life choices. She was still grieving the loss of the man she loved, was still burdened by pain and loneliness, even though she was crying less and smiling more as time went on.

Despite the strain between them, Draco was somewhat glad for the silence, the opportunity to spend time in his own head. He needed time to process things, not an interrogation. Unfortunately, however, he found himself becoming so lost in his thoughts that he came close to making a number of mistakes, bumbling near-blunders more characteristic of an incompetent first year; he had never been so inept, even at that age. A few times it seemed as if his aunt was about to comment on this, but each time she would close her mouth abruptly and turn away.

It seemed neither of them were ready to speak to the other, not yet.

Eventually they finished their respective batches with no major disasters occurring and made their way back to the house in silence.

 

 

 

Tonks arrived at the house just after lunch.

From the looks of it, Andromeda hadn’t told her about their talk, Draco decided, looking up as the Auror strode into the dining area, Andromeda following close behind.

“Wotcher Harry, Draco!” the Auror beamed.

Andromeda’s eyes met his and Draco nodded to her subtly, a silent indicator of thanks.

“Do you know where they are?” Potter asked Tonks immediately.

“Nope!” she said cheerily, even as the boy’s face fell, “but I’ve got something just as good!”

Even Draco eyed her curiously as she stood before them at the table. Andromeda took her seat, watching with exasperated amusement as her daughter made a great show of fishing in the pocket of her robes. Finally, she pulled out a galleon and slammed it triumphantly down in the middle of the table.

Everyone present knew with a glance that this was no mere coin; they were all familiar with how the Protean Charm could be applied to objects in order to communicate messages. The sight of it brought back memories of sixth year, making Draco feel sick for the second time that day, though he tried not to let it show on his face.

“Of course!” Potter exclaimed, reaching across and holding it up close to read the message. “‘Two days. Cottage. 2pm’! They’re coming here!”

“Huh. I would have expected you to have your own one of those, Potter,” Draco commented.

At his words, Andromeda and Tonks turned to stare at Potter, who flushed.

“You had your own coin?” Andromeda questioned, perplexed. “Why didn’t you—”

Potter mumbled something incomprehensible.

“Come again?” asked Tonks.

He repeated the words a fraction louder. “I lost it.”

“You _lost_ it?” Draco repeated incredulously. “The Chosen One, Harry Potter, the only one who can defeat the Dark Lord and save us all… but who can’t keep track of _one_ sodding coin? What if it’s fallen into the wrong hands, and whoever it is works out where we are? I’m not interested in—”

“Despite what you may think, Malfoy,” Potter bit, “I’m not a _complete_ idiot. I know _exactly_ where the coin is and believe me, there’s no chance that anyone has gotten a hold of it.”

“Oh and pray tell why you are so confident—”

“It was eaten,” the other boy simply said, ignoring everyone’s stunned faces, “and that’s all I’m going to say on the matter. I’m not sure why any of it matters to _you_ , Malfoy. You’re not on our side, after all.”

Draco saw Tonks glance at him from the corner of his eye. What was she waiting for, him to tell Potter that he was wrong? Taking in the glare which Andromeda had turned on him, Draco closed his mouth abruptly; her expression was enough to convince him to abandon the snarky retort he was formulating.

“Anyway,” Potter continued, “the coins came in handy for us a couple of years ago. We decided recently, after an accident where we ended up being separated from Ron for months, that it could be worth using them again. Once the other two get here, Hermione can make another duplicate for me and link it to her master coin.”

“Should we send a reply back to them?” Andromeda asked her daughter.

Tonks nodded. “Yeah. Anything you want to say in particular, Harry?”

Potter bit his lip, considering, then shook his head. “Nothing that can’t wait until they get here.”

He reached across and handed the coin to Tonks, who tapped it with her wand and uttered the spell and message: **_Agreed. Come the usual way_**.

From what Draco could assume, the second part of the message—‘the usual way’—was to remind them to travel via Floo from the sole property linked to Almach Cottage.

As Tonks tucked the coin back into her robes, he noticed that neither witch had asked why Potter couldn’t respond to his friends himself. Did they know Draco had taken his wand away from Potter? Surely not, unless Potter had told them so; Draco himself hadn’t ever explained the reason why his wand had been ‘left behind’ in the first place.

He fingered the wand in his pocket surreptitiously as he watched the other three converse. The idea of losing it again was almost too much to bear.

 

 

 

Potter’s screaming woke him again that night, the other boy’s turmoil wrenching Draco from the midst of his own nightmares.

He rolled out of bed and stepped into his slippers, less hurried than he’d been the night before. Reaching for his wand he whispered, “ _Lumos_!” before making his way out of the room.

“Again?” Andromeda called down the hall sleepily, peering at him from the doorway of her own room.

“Sounds like it,” Draco agreed. “I’ll take care of it. Go back to sleep.”

“Okay…” she accepted hesitantly, evidently too tired to object, “but come and get me if it’s anything more than that, alright?”

Draco nodded. She didn’t comment on the wand in his hand but her eyes flicked to it before she pulled herself back into her room. They’d definitely be talking about it in the morning and she’d most likely take Potter’s side in the matter. But that was later and at the moment, Potter was still shrieking and it was giving him a _headache_. Draco turned his attention back to the matter at hand and moved swiftly to the other boy’s room.

He knocked on the door. “Potter?”

There was no indication the other boy had heard him—he just continued screaming.

Draco wrenched the door open, grateful he had his wand back; Potter probably would have used it to put a locking charm up, otherwise.

As he strode to the bed the light from his wand illuminated Potter, sweat-soaked and tangled in his sheets. Hands pressed against the scar on his forehead, he writhed in agony.

 _Why the fuck did I volunteer to do this?_ Draco thought exasperatedly before surging forward. “ _Potter!_ ” He grasped the other boy’s shoulders, shaking firmly, but to no avail. He dug in his fingers and intensified his efforts, not giving a damn whether or not he hurt the Gryffindor. “Harry, _wake up_!”

It was unclear whether it was the pain which Potter responded to, the sound of his name, or simply Draco’s voice. Whatever it was, he responded, struggles ceasing and cries fading into silence. Draco stepped back immediately, cautious of what might happen when Potter opened his eyes. The Gryffindor lay there a moment more and then he twitched and sighed, his eyes opening with a flutter.

“Eh…” he said faintly, blinking rapidly before pulling on the glasses he was offered. “Malfoy?” The frantic terror from the previous night was thankfully absent.

Draco lowered his wand so that the light wasn’t directed into Potter’s eyes. “What on earth is wrong with you?” he asked indelicately.

“You called me ‘Harry’,” the Gryffindor marvelled instead, his words slow and disbelieving.

Draco ignored his tone of bewilderment. “Answer the question, Potter. This is the second night you’ve woken me up with your screaming.”

Potter sighed unsteadily, reaching over to switch on the Muggle lamps that were either side of his double bed, bathing the room in their golden glow. Draco _noxed_ his wand and tucked it into the waistband of his pyjama pants.

Potter looked back at Draco, his features haunted as he propped himself up against his pillows. “Sometimes I have nightmares, that’s all.”

“Well that’s obvious,” Draco said impatiently, “though I’d say yours are a little… out of the ordinary.”

Potter flashed a wry smile. “Yeah well… I guess they’re technically not nightmares, and they’re not visions either.” Cautious green eyes focussed on his. “They’re real.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Truly?”

Potter swallowed, then nodded. “At first I thought they were visions, like I was some kind of bloody Seer.” He let out a bark of self-deprecating laughter. “But eventually we found out that I’m experiencing things as they happen. I can see into You-Know-Who’s mind… I can witness things through his eyes, and feel what he’s feeling at the time.”

“And that’s what just happened?” Draco breathed.

“Yeah.”

“Fuck. Looks like it hurts.” His eyes flicked to Potter’s scar.

Potter’s hand twitched, as if he was resisting the urge to cover his forehead. “Yeah. It does.”

“Well, what did you see?” Had Potter seen Draco’s parents?

“Uh…” Potter scratched his head uncomfortably. “You-Know-Who, he… he was torturing one of the Death Eaters.” Draco’s stomach dropped, though a surge of relief burst through him as the other boy continued. “Mulciber, I think? He was pretty angry…” Potter hesitated. “I don’t think I can tell you more than that without saying more than I should.” He almost looked guilty. “I mean… I guess I shouldn’t have mentioned any of the specifics to you at all…”

“Hmm.”

“Sorry if it shocked you,” Potter said with a slight smile. “I suppose it would have been a good idea to warn you in advance that something like this might happen during the night. Though I’m surprised it’s you who woke me up, rather than Dromeda.”

“She was coming to see to you my room’s closer, so I told her to go back to bed.”

Potter raised an eyebrow, looking surprised. “Oh. She didn’t think it was strange, you volunteering to come in here?”

Draco stiffened. “Well I was here last night as well.”

From Potter’s blank look, it was apparent he had no memory of the way he had scrambled away from Draco the night before. “Oh. I didn’t realise.” He seemed to drift into thought, looking rather perturbed.

“Andromeda doesn’t sleep as much as she should, not since…” Draco shrugged.  “I thought she could do with the rest,” he improvised, still eyeing the other boy’s wan features. “Potter?” Could the other boy remember why he had reacted so severely to Draco the night before?

The other boy blinked at the sound of his name, seeming to snap out of his reverie. “Hmm… Malfoy?” he asked hesitantly.

Draco affected as calm an expression as he could muster. “What is it?”

“Last night I… I saw your father.”

He inhaled sharply; his father was alive. “Tell me.”

Potter’s green eyes assessed him before he proceeded. “He was in a—a hall of some sort, with You-Know-Who and some of the other Death Eaters. Looked like they were having a meeting. I guess they were at your family’s manor… hard to know; I only saw a bit of it. Lucius… he didn’t look well.”

“How so?” Draco’s voice sounded strange to his own ears.

“Uh…” Potter cleared his throat as he thought. “He… I’ve seen him in visions before, and just after Christmas… obviously… and he looked pretty shit then.” He paused as if waiting for Draco to object; when he didn’t, Potter continued, “He looks worse now. He would have been punished for our escape, right? Yours too, I guess.”

Technically, Draco hadn’t escaped, but he didn’t bother to correct the other boy.

“You-Know-Who, he—he treated him like a piece of furniture during the meeting, literally. He was like… like his personal footstool.”

Rage filled Draco. His once proud and powerful father, reduced to chattel. He bit his anger back; he needed to hear the rest.

“Eventually he couldn’t support his own weight and he collapsed on the floor,” Potter said quietly, “and when that happened You-Know-Who—he… he invited the others forward to punish him.”

Draco bowed his head, gazing furiously down at the hardwood floor.

"I could tell you what they did," Potter offered, his voice hesitant.

Draco shook his head. " _No_. Don’t tell me." He couldn't bear to hear it. And there were other things he needed to ask, even if he was afraid to hear the answer. “My mother?” he whispered, lifting his head to look into those green eyes once more.

The other boy shook his head. “She wasn’t there, Malfoy. I couldn’t say.”

Draco was silent a moment as he tried to collect himself.

“And… Bellatrix?” he asked finally. He didn’t care for the woman, but if both she and his father were still alive, surely his mother would be too.

“I didn’t see her.”

Draco sighed, then said, “Well… I appreciate you telling me.”

Eyes wide, Potter shrugged, as if it was nothing. For a few beats, they simply stared at each other.

“Malfoy.”

“What, Potter?”

“I’ve seen some of the things he’s made you do.”

Draco took a sharp breath.

And then: “I’m glad he can’t make you do them anymore.”

Draco’s head shot up. _Why?_ He wondered desperately, taking in the Gryffindor’s green eyed gaze.

“You know, I don’t think you get enough sleep either, Malfoy,” Potter commented softly. “You look as tired as you did back in sixth year, back when you—”

“Enough, Potter,” Draco interrupted wearily. “My lack of sleep is hardly a revelation. Do you really think that anyone in Wizarding Britain—other than the Dark Lord—is getting their required rest right now?”

“Well, probably not,” Potter admitted.

“It took me bloody long enough to fall asleep,” Draco grumbled, “then you started shouting. I’ll be lucky to get any more tonight.”

It wasn’t just this disturbance which would keep him from going back to sleep; the endless fear for his family would nag at him too. He supposed he’d simply read until dawn came, if only to distract his mind.

Potter smiled at him apologetically, pushing a section of unruly hair off his forehead with his fingers. It didn’t stay put, so the Gryffindor repeated the gesture. It was rather endearing. Draco looked away, realising he’d been staring far too long.

“Might as well keep me company, then.”

Draco blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Potter shrugged indifferently, as if the idea was hardly ludicrous and he was used to extending casual invitations to his rivals. “I’m not going to be able to fall asleep for a while either—if at all—not after seeing what I just did. Being in Vol—You-Know-Who’s head has a tendency to turn me off it, see. And talking to you lately has been somewhat… interesting. You’re a bit less of a prat when you’re on your own, Malfoy. Still a prat, mind.”

“And you’re a bit less of a prat when you’re not surrounded by your band of morally superior half-wits.” Draco returned.

Potter glowered at that statement. “Excuse me?”

Draco, feeling like a bit of an arsehole then—though only a bit—sighed in resignation. “Alright, fine,” he murmured, noticing Potter seemed to visibly relax at his agreement. He glanced around, noticing that, unlike his room, Potter’s had no chair. He was about to summon one when Potter flapped an exasperated hand at him.

“Just sit up here on the bed, Malfoy,” he yawned. “It’s not like I’m not planning to seduce you.”

_I’d like to see you try._

Fuck, where had _that_ thought come from? No, he _hadn’t_ thought that; he couldn’t have. He stared at Potter, who lay there so casually with that stupid lopsided smile on his face and those sleepy eyes and the recalcitrant mop that no one could seriously call a haircut. Suddenly he felt a stirring in his groin, felt a _heat_. And that was enough to send him scurrying around to the other side of the bed and beneath the covers before those emerald eyes could notice the reaction Potter had roused in him.

Draco expected the other boy to be shocked that he hadn’t just sat down on the bed, he’d gotten _in_ the bed. However, to his surprise, the Gryffindor simply smiled and passed him a pillow.

Too proud to back down now, Draco propped the pillow against the bedhead so that he could lean against it, then crossed his arms behind his head, trying for an air of nonchalance. “So, I never found out exactly why you showed up at the manor that day,” he commented in an attempt to move the conversation forward.

“Oh. We went there to free Luna, but things didn’t go exactly to plan and we got caught. We’d made a deal with her father to rescue her.” Potter paused, and when he continued he sounded almost guilty. “I mean, I would have tried to get her out anyway, even if there hadn’t been a deal involved.”

Draco snorted. “You do realise that you don’t actually need to justify anything to me, right Potter? Although… it _is_ interesting to hear you aren’t always the selfless little hero everyone makes you out to be.”

Potter frowned. “I’ve never claimed to be a hero,” he said tightly.

“Uh huh,” Draco brushed the other boy’s comment aside. “So, what did old Xenophilius have that you needed, anyway?”

“Information.” Potter said shortly.

“Information?” Draco echoed. “That’s all you’re going to tell me?”

“Hmm…” Potter shrugged. “Good information?” he supplied with a half-smile.

Draco arched an eyebrow. “Whatever, Potter.”

“Don’t you think we should move beyond the whole Potter/Malfoy thing already?” Potter asked teasingly. “I mean… we are sharing a bed currently.”

Draco felt his cheeks flush again; didn’t the fool realise how flirtatious he sounded? No, of course he didn’t; he had the self-awareness of a stirring rod. “If you’re going to be an arsehole, then I’ll call you Potter, _Potter_.” In truth, he wasn’t actually too annoyed—he’d become pretty used to people keeping secrets from him, after all. 

“Whatever, _Malfoy_. Now, turn off the light on your side; it’s too bright.”

With a final roll of the eyes Draco switched off the lamp beside him, letting the room swallow them in darkness as they continued their good-humoured bickering into the night.

 

 

 

When Draco awoke the next morning, he realised four things very quickly.

First, he’d overslept—though that was hardly surprising since he’d been woken in the middle in the night then had stayed up talking for hours after. Secondly, he’d never made it back to his own room; he was still in Potter’s—no, _Harry’s_ —bed. The third and rather alarming thing wasn’t that he had an erection (for such a thing was hardly an unusual thing to wake up to) it was the fact it was pressing into Harry’s thigh. And the fourth realisation—equally as shocking as the third—was that he could feel the hardness of Harry’s own prick against his own leg.

 _Oh, Merlin_.

At some point in the night the two of them had seemingly wrapped themselves around each other. Perhaps they’d been seeking warmth—the interior of Almach Cottage was rather cold after all, and, being wandless, Harry wouldn’t have cast a warming charm upon his blankets.

Maybe if it wasn’t Harry Potter of all people that he was cuddling Draco would be reasonably content remaining in the position he was in. But, it _was_ Harry Potter, meaning Draco wasn’t pleased one bit.

Heart thundering, he squeezed his eyes shut briefly, wishing he could be anywhere else. He didn’t even remember falling asleep: he could only remember their inane bantering which had continued for hours. He never would have guessed that Potter— _Harry_ —could hold a decent conversation but somehow they’d managed to avoid talking about anything particularly heavy or distressing and the world hadn’t ended either.

As Draco returned to the present moment it occurred to him that things could always be worse; he was fortunate to be the one who’d woken first, saving himself the embarrassment of being discovered. He looked down to assess the situation, trying to avoid glancing at the bulge in the Gryffindor’s pyjamas as he did. He just needed to carefully dislodge himself and return to his room without waking the other boy, and then Harry would be none the wiser. Raising his head to train his eyes on Harry’s face, Draco prepared to shuffle himself back toward his own side of the bed.

But then those green eyes opened and latched onto his and Draco realised it was too late.

Draco’s breath caught in his throat as Harry stared at him drowsily for a few beats until finally becoming aware of their predicament, of his own—and, mortifyingly, Draco’s—frustratingly tenacious erections. Eyes widening in panic, the Gryffindor’s cheeks reddened as he wrenched himself away, and Draco took the opportunity to twist and throw himself to his feet, turning his back to hide his groin from view.

“I think I’ll go and make some coffee,” Draco announced with feigned calmness, skirting around the bed as discretely as possible and desperately hoping Harry couldn’t see the tenting of his pyjama bottoms.

“Sounds good.” Harry’s voice sounded strained, higher than usual. Draco realised with some relief that the other boy was more concerned with his own situation to notice him.

Draco moved with forced slowness as he exited Harry’s room and softly closed the door. Then, he dashed into his own bedroom, swearing under his breath when he realised he’d left his wand behind in his desperate bid to escape. He deliberated against returning for a moment before deciding against it. It was too late now; Harry had probably found it already. He cursed his own stupidity—he’d only just gotten it back, too.

Growling in frustration at his carelessness, he made his way into the bathroom and peeled off his pyjamas, resolutely ignoring his still half-stiff cock as he stepped into the shower. As he let the water course over him he managed to force his irritation away. Harry would have been permitted Draco’s wand in the end, anyway. He could imagine the Order’s reasoning: they would claim that it would be a great risk for them to allow Draco to be in possession of a wand and, what need did he have for one anyway when he was confined to Almach Cottage, a place protected by a plethora of charms and wards? Even if the hawthorn wand was rightfully Draco’s, even if losing one’s wand was commonly equated to losing a part of oneself, Harry’s needs would always win out over his, for he was their Chosen One, their champion. Draco, on the other hand, was nothing.

Perhaps it was better that it had happened this way rather than him having to suffer the indignity of it being forced out of his hands by his aunt or his cousin or even worse, by Weasley and Granger. Yes, at least now Draco could pretend he had left it behind on purpose if he had to, even if such an action was extremely out of character.

Although thoughts about his wand eventually faded away, Draco couldn’t manage to drive away the other images and sensations which continued to pervade him. As he stood there with his eyes closed against the steaming water, all he could see was Harry fucking Potter. As he leaned over and grabbed the shampoo and his revived erection bobbed with the movement, all he could think of was Harry fucking Potter. And as he resigned himself with a sigh and reached down to grasp hold of his throbbing arousal, all he wanted was Harry fucking Potter.

 

 

 

Draco glowered at his reflection in the mirror as he buttoned his shirt, stewing over the aftermath of his abominable libido.

He had just wanked over Harry Potter.

_Stupid Harry. No, Potter; he’s Potter. Stupid Potter._

It had been easy to push aside his personal feelings when he’d been standing there in the shower, to forget who owned those mesmerising green eyes, that thick tangle of inky hair, and that cock he’d ached to behold. But now that he was firmly entrenched in reality once more, he was downright disgusted.

The fact that he had masturbated over a man was hardly of concerned. Draco had fooled around with other males before; he and Blaise had made out a few times and Truth or Dare in the Slytherin dormitories had had some rather heated moments over the years. Furthermore, while pure-blooded families—and particularly Slytherin ones—put a strong emphasis upon preserving and extending the family line, there were ways that situations could be managed if two men wished to make a permanent commitment to each other. Arrangements could be made.

What filled Draco with utter self-loathing and shame was the fact that he was sexually attracted to Potter, and it was becoming harder and harder to deny. _Potter_ , of all people. Potter, the champion of the light, Dumbledore’s Golden Boy. Half-blooded, _Gryffindor_ Potter, who befriended Mudbloods and half-breed mongrels like Hagrid and Lupin.

Potter was surely just as disgusted over the whole predicament as he was. Perhaps more so. For perfect Saint Potter had royally fucked up, hadn’t he? His pure Gryffindor prick had rubbed against the thigh of Draco Malfoy: Slytherin, Death Eater and evil incarnate. He wondered how the other boy had dealt with the aftermath of that morning. It was pretty unlikely that he’d handled matters the way Draco had. And Draco _had_ handled it.

Literally.

Even if Andromeda’s words had managed to create a small perforation in his blood supremacist bubble, he couldn’t allow something like this to happen again. He had let things go too far—what had just happened made that clear. Draco was supposed to _hate_ Potter; he’d hated him for years, and with good reason. He was _not_ supposed to be attracted to him.

All Draco had needed to do was to make sure Potter didn’t die while Andromeda was at Headquarters; there had been no need to even be civil towards him, let alone do something as ridiculous as get into his bed and spend the night there. He was almost certain that Potter had had no lascivious intentions; regardless, Draco’s poorly-timed amiability had led to disastrous consequences. He should have kept away—the Gryffindor was Andromeda’s guest, not his; he should have allowed her to deal with Potter and his damned nightmares rather than volunteering to do it himself.

The only thing he had done which could be considered remotely redeeming was roll out of Potter’s bed that morning rather than pulling him closer. Yes, that was something at least; he hadn’t done anything _with_ Potter. And he wouldn’t, because something like this couldn’t happen again. It _wouldn’t_ happen again.

Draco glared at his reflection one last time then backed away from the mirror.

 

 

 

When he arrived in the kitchen area Potter was already there. The dark-haired boy was still clad in his pyjamas—though the night before he’d gestured to the trouser cuffs he’d rolled up, informing Draco they actually belonged to Weasley, who was much taller. Draco took the opportunity to pause in the doorway and watch the Gryffindor, who leaned against the counter as he waited for the kettle to boil. Potter chewed his bottom lip meditatively as he stared out the window, one hand idly stroking the bare flesh of his upper arm. The motion sent a fresh flurry of suggestive imagery through Draco’s mind. Exasperated and revolted by this mental betrayal, Draco pushed these contemplations away.

_Stupid Potter._

Forcing his face to adopt a carefree expression, he moved beyond the doorway to join the other boy by the counter just as he was pouring his coffee. Potter passed him an empty mug, deliberately avoiding eye contact all the while; if he remembered Draco’s earlier offer to make coffee he either had the courtesy to not mention it, or was simply trying to forget the entirety of their earlier encounter. As he moved away in the direction of the dining table, his arm brushed slightly against Draco’s, causing the Slytherin to stiffen.

Mug filled, Draco hovered by the counter a moment longer as he briefly considered making up some excuse to return to his room. Eventually, he decided against it. He needed to accept that this thing—this incredibly embarrassing _thing_ —had happened, and then he needed to move on and ensure it never happened again. Dwelling on the situation was pointless; it wasn’t as if waking up with an erection was an unfamiliar circumstance—it was just unfortunate that they’d moved closer to each other during the night.

Luckily, Potter didn’t know the worst of it, that Draco had taken himself in hand, his mind awash with lurid fantasies as he brought himself to orgasm in the shower.

Deciding to take the conciliatory role before Potter could, Draco pulled out one of the chairs and joined the Gryffindor at the table, offering him a small nod. The other boy glanced sideways at him for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and sighed, seemingly coming to some kind of internal decision.

Finally, he looked into Draco’s eyes and said, “Here, you left this behind,” and placed Draco’s wand on the table between them.

Draco stared down at his wand for a few seconds, realising that Potter’s action represented something larger. He was giving Draco back his wand, not just for now, but for good. Or… for good in Potter’s mind anyway; Draco was almost certain that it would be confiscated before long. Regardless, it was there; it was his. He slowly reached across and took it, humming in contentment as his fingers made contact with the wood. It was like coming home. As he slid it into the pocket of his jacket he looked back at Potter, who was smiling softly at him.

Finally, he nodded, resolutely ignoring the heat of his cheeks. “Thanks Potter.” At these words, the other boy seemed to crumble, his wounded expression causing Draco to sigh. “Thanks… _Harry_.”

Salazar, he was so weak-willed.

“No problem… _Draco_.” To his surprise, the dark-haired boy’s mouth immediately split into that lopsided grin again, as if it really was no problem at all. Strangely enough, Draco found his own mouth mirroring his.

And that was how Andromeda found them when she entered the kitchen—grinning at each other like a pair of idiots.

“Did I miss something?” she inquired cheerfully on her way to the larder.

Harry looked up at her, still smiling. “Nah, not really. Did you sleep well, Dromeda?”

“Ah, mostly,” the older woman conceded, “though I must admit there are some things that I can’t sleep through.”

Harry blushed. “Oh, shit. Of course. Sorry, Dromeda.”

“Will you need to contact Headquarters again?” she asked gently.

“Yeah… not sure how important it’ll be to them this time, but… yeah, I will.”

Draco watched as the Harry traced around the lip of his mug with the tip of his index finger. For a few moments he allowed himself to watch the finger as it stroked, as it _caressed_ , and then, to his horror, he suddenly felt a twitch down below.

 _No!_ He frantically forced himself to picture Umbridge and Hagrid engaged in a nude and excessively hairy rendezvous in a desperate attempt to soften his hardening member. This was simply ridiculous.

Harry’s eyes slid across to him again, and Draco’s heart leapt in his chest.

“Draco?”

“Hmm?” He flicked his gaze away from those penetrating emerald pools and looked over at his aunt instead, who seemed—for some unknown reason—to be fighting back a smile. It was nice to see her smiling at him, even if he suspected it was at his own expense.

“Are you fine to start our brewing earlier today? There’s nothing urgent to take care of in the garden, and Nymphadora is coming over for lunch.”

“That’s fine.”

Tonks visiting was hardly a special event but it was good to know all the same; hopefully it would help to divert from the discomfiture between Draco and Andromeda. She seemed to be less cool toward him today—and more natural than when she had playing nice for Harry’s sake the previous morning. Perhaps things were on the way to becoming alright between them once more even if the situation hadn’t really been resolved.

Cradling his half-full mug, Draco rose from his chair to follow his aunt to the garden. As he turned to close, he glanced back to find Harry staring at him.

Pink-cheeked, the Gryffindor’s eyes darted away.

 

 

 

When Draco and Andromeda returned to the house at noon, they found that Harry had prepared lunch for them—pumpkin soup and cheese scones—and at some point, he had been joined by Tonks, whose hair cascaded midway down her back in ivory waves.

The laboratory had remained quiet that morning, though the silence had been less stifling than the day before. A few words had been exchanged between them—far less than normal, but enough to reassure Draco. Most importantly, Andromeda had smiled at Draco as they’d walked back up to the house together, which suggested that she hadn’t completely given up on him. In a way, Draco resented the idea that he was some sort of project to her, but at the same time he was also somewhat grateful he hadn’t completely driven her away.

But how long would it be before he did?

After finishing their lunch, the four of them went into the living room, a grinning Tonks leading the way. Andromeda had suggested Harry take a nap but the Gryffindor had refused, insisting he was feeling fine and was hardly in need of any more rest. Green eyes twinkling, he sat down beside Andromeda to watch Tonks, who had placed her black bag on the floor in front of them and was kneeling before it as she pulled out half a dozen slim boxes. Curiousity piqued, Draco sank into an armchair to watch.

“Ollivander hopes one of these will suit you,” Tonks told Harry, lining the boxes up on the coffee table in front of the younger wizard. “He also apologises for not being able to make the trip here himself.”

At the mention of the old wandmaker’s name Draco jerked, sickly recalling the afternoon in the cellar a few days before Harry and the others had been captured. He was glad to hear the old man had come through alright… no thanks to him of course. The others didn’t seem to notice his reaction; thankfully, they were paying attention to Harry.

“This is amazing,” Harry breathed, eyes roving the boxes in wonder. A strange expression played upon his features, as if he could hardly believe that someone would make such a gesture for him. The look on the Gryffindor’s face confused Draco; surely he was used to it by now. Harry reached out, his fingers hovered in the air before they gently trailed over the row of boxes in a light caress. He paused a moment longer and then finally selected one, sliding off the lid.

The three of them watched as Harry pulled the wands out one at a time, holding each reverently as Tonks read the inscription on the box aloud. Some he flicked, just as Ollivander had shown them to so many years ago, and others made their way back into the boxes almost immediately. Draco felt a pleasant sense of warmth cradling his insides as he realised it must have been Harry who had contacted the old wizard so that he could get a new wand, rather than taking Draco’s away from him again. Harry had found a way to ensure they could both perform magic; he’d understood Draco’s wand was a part of him after all.

It was affection that he was feeling, he finally realised, and bit down on it. He shouldn’t— _couldn’t_ —be feeling this way. It was difficult though, oh so difficult, when Harry kept surprising him and continually abolished all of Draco’s expectations. It was ridiculous too—they were on opposite sides of a war, had _always_ been on opposite sides; this burgeoning fondness after seven years of enmity made no sense to him at all.

And yet… and yet.

Eventually Harry managed to select his new wand—or his wand managed to select him, as wandmakers were wont to say—thirteen inches and made of blackthorn, with a dragon heartstring core—and Tonks returned the others to her bag.

They remained in the living room for the rest of the afternoon, making easy conversation as if things had always been that way. For a while it was strangely easy to forget the war and the price on Harry’s head as ‘Undesirable Number One’ and the tension manifested by Draco’s offensively opposing views. When they grew tired of tea Andromeda rose, claiming she needed to go and ‘find something’ before disappearing from the room before returning with a large bottle of firewhisky and a devilish smile. Tonks clapped and whooped at the sight, pleased by her mother’s antics.

It was late when Andromeda guided her incredibly intoxicated daughter back to her childhood bedroom, stumbling herself as she waved exuberantly to Draco and Harry and bid them good night. And, as Draco weaved his way back to his own room and watched Harry disappear behind his door he marvelled over the simplicity and sheer pleasantness of the last few hours, and wondered where on earth Draco Malfoy had vanished to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies - I'm using Google Translate for all of the Latin phrases and I'm sure it's not the most accurate, but it's fun to play around with. The title of this chapter is supposed to translate to 'A Lust Most Disturbing'.


	9. Virides Oculos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual content ahead

Sequestered in his room, Draco stumbled out of his clothing and into his pyjamas, forcing himself to ignore the urge to tend to his burgeoning arousal. After kicking his day-clothes into a corner he fell into bed, and the friction he experienced as his groin rubbed against the mattress was sublime. He wanted to rut into it, wanted to jerk and caress himself into a quivering, trembling mess. Damn that Harry Potter, damn his own persistently prurient thoughts, and damn his traitorous body. Groaning, he forced himself to flip onto his back.

He should have been content enough with the temporary truce—he _thought_ he had been—but now that he was alone, alone and achingly hard, there was little to distract him from his foolish desires. Harry—the real one, not the wanton creature currently lolling about in Draco’s mind—had hardly helped matters. At some point over the course of the night, the two young men had grown inebriated enough to begin smiling unabashedly across the coffee table at each other. It had started out as a few quick glances, each looking away as the other noticed, but eventually their eyes had locked and held. In Draco’s mind, Harry’s eyes and lips had been a blatant insinuation of his desire. It had felt like a form of silent communication passing between them, a kind of mutual recognition.

As Draco had stumbled down the hallway behind Harry, his eyes fixed upon the lean figure in front of him, he’d felt that betraying throb, that stiffness between his legs. It had been impossible not to gawk appreciatively at Harry’s assets when he could do so unnoticed and they were right in front of him: that firm arse, those narrow hips and strong shoulders. Fortunately, his common sense had made its presence known before anything disastrous could occur, and Draco had successfully continued to his room unaccompanied, rather than falling victim to his perfidious hormones.

With a sigh, Draco reached over and plucked the topmost book from the stack on his bedside table. Reading was the last thing he felt like doing, but sleeping would be an impossibility when he was so physically stimulated. Hopefully the mental distraction would be sufficient enough to quieten his thirst for pleasure.

He had been struggling to read for just over half an hour when a knock sounded lightly on the door.

Before Draco had a chance to react, the door pushed open. Harry poked his head through the gap and peered in at him. His expression seemed tentative at first, but then a faint smile ghosted over his lips.

Draco lowered his book and regarded the other boy with raised eyebrows. Thankfully by now, his member was more or less at rest, and he’d sobered enough to be staunchly conscious of the need to maintain self-control.

“ _Dark Uprisings of the Modern Age_?” Harry was squinting at the title of the text.

Draco closed the book, looking down and running a finger over the embossed script on the cover. “It spans the last couple of centuries and offers a socio-political analysis of various movements across the globe.” He shot a warning glare at the other boy before Harry could comment. “It’s an academic text, not some sort of… Death Eater manual, if that’s what you were thinking.”

Harry’s eyes widened comically. “There’s a _Death Eater manual_?”

“Oh, for goodness– don’t be absurd, Potter. Honestly.”

At the word ‘honestly’, Harry giggled. “You sound like ‘Mione.”

Draco lifted an eyebrow. “I doubt it. Anyway, is there something you need; some reason you’re here and not resting off your…” he waved a hand.

Harry’s lips curved in a crooked smile; this expression served as an obvious indicator that the Gryffindor was still rather inebriated. “Um, well, I realised I’m not tired yet, and… I thought I would pay you a visit.”

_For Merlin's sake, why must my willpower be continually tested?_

Draco found his eyes drawn to the closed bathroom door, his face warming as he remembered his morning erection and the subsequent shower which had quelled it. Harry followed the direction of his gaze, looking at the door questioningly and then back to Draco, his features growing hesitant and self-conscious as the silence stretched between them.

Draco’s first instinct was to say no to the other boy, to tell him to go away. He needed to ignore his maddening thoughts and feelings until they dissipated, to avoid opportunities where he might be tempted to do something utterly regrettable. Since both his body and his mind kept betraying him, the best way to stick to his principles was to avoid being alone with the Gryffindor. Refusing Harry his company was the smart thing to do, the _right_ thing to do.

But at that moment he wasn’t having much luck when it came to doing the right thing, and his rational brain seemed to be fighting a losing battle against the wants of his libido. So, instead of turning Harry away, he invited him in.

Draco scooted from his position in the middle of the bed to the side furthest from the door, making space for the raven-haired teen. With a lopsided grin, Harry kicked off his slippers and clambered inelegantly up beside him. Kneeling unsteadily, he pulled his new wand from the waistband of his—no, Weasley’s—pyjama bottoms and awkwardly manoeuvred it beneath a pillow.

“I really should thank you,” Draco murmured, eyeing the space where the wand had been tucked.

“For what?” the Gryffindor asked in surprise, shuffling down to lie atop the covers beside him.

“For not forcing me to give my wand back to you.”

Flushing slightly, the Gryffindor brushed off his words of gratitude. “Ah, it’s no big deal, Draco! Had to get a new one at some point, didn’t I?”

“Indeed… because you—”

“Snapped it.” Harry’s words mirrored the vague account he’d provided two days earlier.

“Mmm, so you say. But how exactly did you—”

“Snapped it,” Harry repeated, his tone surprisingly resolute; from this, it became obvious to Draco that he wouldn’t be given any additional information.

“…Yes. Well, I don’t know what your original wand was made from, but I think the blackthorn and dragon heartstring combination suits you quite well,” Draco commented. “I’ve done lots of reading about wandlore over the years, you know. Wandmaking is a fascinating and intricate art, not simply because of the different combinations of woods and cores that can be used in crafting, but also due to the amount of time and care devoted to each wand over the course of its creation. And… and how remarkable it is to find the right wand, one that is perfectly attuned to its owner… it’s a truly intimate thing.” He silenced himself abruptly as it occurred to him that he was rambling, something which he never did.

Harry grinned at him as if highly entertained by Draco’s prattling. “Wow, it sounds as if you _really_ like wands.”

Draco paused, his internal self-chastisement entirely interrupted by this offhand comment. He eyed the dark-haired boy, trying to ascertain whether he was teasing him for being so passionate about wandlore, or whether he was hinting at the double meaning of the word ‘wand’.

Draco smirked at Harry, carving out a response which could also be open to interpretation. “Certainly… they’ve always appealed to me. You might say I’m rather… attracted to them,” he quipped. “How do _you_ feel about wands?”

Harry blushed, glancing down a moment with his brow furrowed before he looked up, staring straight into Draco's grey gaze. “Uh… well, I guess I’ve come to find in recent times that I’m reasonably fond of wands as well, actually.”

Draco’s eyes widened in surprise. The Gryffindor’s face grew even redder as he noticed the Slytherin’s change in expression. Clearing his throat awkwardly, Harry turned his face away to fix his attention on a spot on the wall. The silence which had fallen between them had made it startlingly obvious that neither of them had really been talking about wands at all.

For the umpteenth time that day, Draco cursed his brain and its failure to recognise his own ludicrousness until it was too late. He couldn't trust himself to utter another word for fear of making matters even worse.

“What did you mean?” Harry said finally.

_Fuck. Draco Malfoy, you are an imprudent, imbecilic, moronic, dim-wittedly foolish git._

Pulling himself from this rather synonymic internal monologue, Draco glanced at the Gryffindor. “About what?” he asked innocently.

“My new one suiting me.”

Draco held back his sigh of relief; after beginning to stray into dangerous territory, Harry had diverted them back to the original topic of conversation, it seemed. “Ah yes. Well first, it’s made from blackthorn, right, and wands which are made from blackthorn are often called warrior wands. It’s a wood that is associated with ridding negative energy and eradicating fear, so really, it’s perfect for a Gryffindor hero like yourself who’s determined to save the world from the clutches of the Dark Lord.”

“V— _You-Know-Who_ ,” Harry reproached. “And I’m _not_ a hero.”

“Fine. Anyway, these types of wands often require a trial of sorts in order to bond to their owner properly. Typically, this is manifested by passing through danger together. Merlin, if your wand doesn’t bond fully to _you_ , then no one else has a chance in Hades! Moving on to the dragon heartstring core… well, that’s pretty interesting. Usually a combination like yours would make a good wand for a Dark wizard.” Harry prickled beside him at the assumed accusation. “However, you _are_ a Parselmouth, come to think of it, and since _that’s_ considered a form of Dark magic, maybe it’s the reason the wand picked you, regardless of whether or not you possess any other proclivities. Hmm…” Draco faded off, lost in his own muddle of thoughts.

Seeming to realise that Draco hadn’t actually been insinuating anything, the dark-haired boy dropped his tense posture. The smile which crept onto his face was smug and knowing. “Gee, it’s nice to hear you’ve thought so much about me,” Harry teased.

“Pfft!” Draco scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself, Potter. Save that for your fan club.”

Harry’s smile faded as soon as it had appeared, and now he regarded the blonde with an unnerving intensity. “You know, it was always you who knew just how to push my buttons, Malfoy. You were always there.” He spoke slowly, looking as if some kind of realisation was dawning upon him. Whatever it was, Draco was certain he didn’t want to hear it. “You always knew—”

“And _you_ always pissed me off more than anyone else ever could!” Draco butt in. “Except for Weasley,” he added as an afterthought.

“Yeah, and the same with you! Sometimes it felt like you were seeking me out, like you _wanted_ to be a constant pain in the arse.”

“You make it sound as if I was obsessed with you,” Draco sneered.

Harry’s face softened as he leaned closer. “Weren’t you?”

Draco dropped his sneer. “No,” he breathed, his eyes resting on Harry’s intense green ones, so close to his now. “Were you obsessed with me?”

“No,” Harry whispered as he narrowed the gap between them. “Never.”

And then Harry’s lips pressed against his.

_This can’t be happening._

Draco froze, too stunned by the realisation that, through little fault of his own, real life and fantasy had just collided. It was one thing to masturbate alone in the shower guided by his own pitiable visualisations; it was quite another to experience the feel of Harry Potter’s pliant mouth on his—warm, welcoming and real.

Deep down he knew the wisest thing to do would be to yank himself away, to drive the Gryffindor off with those barbed words he had always been so good at calling forth. But at that moment he didn’t particularly feel like being wise. He wanted to kiss Harry back.

So he did.

Shaking off his momentary stupor, Draco pressed his own lips firmly against Harry’s, savouring the contact against warm, soft flesh. It wasn’t a tentative response but one flavoured with bold decisiveness. For now, for just awhile, he’d allow himself to push aside all thoughts of how he ought to act. Fighting his urges had failed spectacularly so far; perhaps if he simply addressed his needs he’d be able to get them out of his system once and for all. So, right now, he was going to do exactly what _he_ wanted—not what his family wanted—and deal with the consequences later; self-preservation be damned.

Harry seemed to be spurred on by Draco’s reaction; his kissing grew in intensity, becoming more certain, more eager, more confident. To Draco, the dark-haired boy’s lips tasted like firewhisky and want, and as their mouths crashed together, they met each other’s hunger one for one.

Draco’s hand drifted to upwards, his fingers carding through Harry’s tangle of inky locks. He marvelled at their silky texture, just as soft as he’d hoped. Stroking and caressing his way down to the other boy’s nape, he twisted his fingers through the baby hairs at the base of Harry’s neck before pushing him even closer. Harry hummed appreciatively then swiped his tongue across Draco’s bottom lip, a wet stripe of yearning. Draco shivered in pleasure at the touch, parting his lips instinctively to allow Harry’s tongue entry into his mouth. He met it with his own as they explored and tasted each other with wild abandon. They licked and sucked and nipped, Draco’s hands still anchored in Harry’s hair, pushing him deeper and deeper as Harry caressed his face with one hand and pressed against his back with the other.

Their mouths moved against each other in a way that was almost desperately frenetic—raw and ravenous, all pretences and inhibitions abandoned. It felt as if their time together was limited to now, as if their only chance was this. And perhaps that was true, because Harry _was_ leaving the next day and after that Draco was _going_ to regain his self-control and maybe they’d never see each other again. In times of war nothing could be certain, nothing could be promised. Perhaps they’d survive and meet again, but surely it wouldn’t be like _this_ ; it _couldn’t_ be like this. Instead, things would be the way they used to be, the way they were _supposed_ to be—full of spiteful animosity shaped by different worlds and different expectations and different truths. But how could it even be possible to return to that old version of normal, now that everything was starting to change?

 _Why did we spend all of these past years fighting_ , Draco wondered deliriously, _when we could have been putting our tongues to better use?_

He pulled his mouth away to take a quick gasp of air before plunging back in, catching Harry’s lower lip between his teeth, sucking and tugging at the plump flesh. Tingles coursed through his body as the other boy responded to his attentions with a soft, delectable moan and the hand on his back shifted to slip beneath his shirt. And when he let go of his hold, he was captured almost immediately by Harry, his own eager mouth kissing Draco’s again and again.

Using a hand to steady him, Harry guided Draco back towards the pillows, their lips still locked as he leaned over top. Harry pulled his mouth away once more, peppering the blonde’s jawline with a stripe of hot, wet kisses. Draco’s eyes fluttered closed as he moaned in response, tilting his chin back to allow the other teen easier access. The Gryffindor continued to move lower, kissing and nipping at the Slytherin’s neck, the porcelain skin becoming a map of rose-dappled markings. The sensation caused Draco to pant and quiver, his hands diving beneath the thin cotton of Harry’s pyjama shirt to dance over firm, Quidditch-sculpted back muscles. He gasped in pleasure as Harry latched onto a particularly sensitive spot, sinking his teeth in first then swirling his tongue and sucking at the area, causing a most exquisite sensation. A leg was flung over Draco and the other boy’s body followed in a smooth motion, his hard cock making its presence known as it dragged across Draco’s thigh until Harry was positioned above him in a straddle.

Harry gazed down at him, his emerald eyes warm and sparkling and full of want, his cheeks flushed, partially an after-effect of the alcohol and partially a marker of lust. The lips which smirked down at Draco were swollen, kiss-stained and craving. Harry looked so gloriously debauched, so gorgeous, and Draco needed more of him. He tugged the dark-haired boy down to him, wrapping his fingers in that wild mess of hair again as he coaxed those lips to meet his. Harry went willingly, lowering himself completely until they were pressed flush against each other.

As Draco felt the stiffness of the other boy’s cock as it pressed heavily into his hip, he was almost dizzy with excitement and desire. For a moment, apart from their heavy breaths, each of them were still as they settled against each other, losing themselves in the moment. Draco was the first to move, swivelling his hips in a search for friction, grinding and rubbing his cock against the Gryffindor’s. When Harry inhaled sharply and began to respond in kind he couldn’t hold back his own gasp.

“Oh, _oh_ _fuck_ ,” Harry panted against his ear as he lurched forward. It was the first word that either of them had said since the significant shift in atmosphere and Draco hummed in agreement.

Fuck, indeed.

Draco ran his hands up the outside of Harry's thighs, trailing over hips then back, gripping a hold of his arse and spreading his fingers to squeeze and massage the cheeks as he pressed Harry closer. They rutted against each other in delicious synchronisation, moving slowly at first, their lips locking together in their frantic dance once more, parting every so often to allow one of them to take a shuddering breath or to moan. And then they began to move faster and Draco removed his hands and looped his arms around Harry’s neck, lifting his legs to curl around Harry’s waist instead. He felt himself reaching the precipice and knew he was close, oh so close, but he couldn’t find the words to tell the other to slow down. And then he was there, coming with a cry as he felt the tension pump out of him for the second time that day. But this time was so much better because Harry was there, because he was feeling it too, because everything was real. Harry continued to thrust against him a few moments more, following closely behind as he finished with a long shuddering breath.

Damp foreheads pressed against each other as the two waited for their breathing to slow. After a minute or so, Draco unwrapped his legs, Harry shifting slightly to accommodate the movement. A moment later, the Gryffindor dismounted, flopping onto the bed beside him. Draco reached for his wand on the bedside table so he could perform a cleaning charm on them both.

“Thanks,” said Harry, wriggling his hips as the spell washed over him.

With a slight nod Draco tucked his wand underneath his pillow in its usual position before he lay down again, staring up at the ceiling. He felt the bed move as Harry rearranged himself so that he was underneath the cover, watching out the corner of his eye as the Gryffindor curled on his side to face him.

They lay in silence, not speaking but withdrawing into themselves instead. Harry seemed to be gazing at something just beyond Draco’s shoulder, while Draco allowed his eyes to close. The feelings of ecstasy were beginning to wane as the oh-so familiar feeling of self-loathing crept in and the reality of what he’d done hit him properly.

He may not have been the initiator in the end, but Draco had given himself over willingly. It hadn’t taken much effort to forget the risks and consequences when he’d had Harry’s lips on his and temptation at his fingertips. The firewhisky had likely played a role in dashing his common sense to smithereens; perhaps he could blame that a little. Even though he felt sober he clung to the notion fiercely as the last remnants of his devil-may-care attitude dissolved.

Harry was leaving the next day, and remembering that managed to sooth his inner turmoil somewhat. Perhaps Draco had disgraced himself by acting the lustful fool, but at least after tomorrow there would be no opportunity to make such mistakes again. He stole a peek at Harry’s contemplative gaze; the other boy was likely drowning in his own sea of regret as well. The situation was hardly ideal for the Gryffindor either; he’d tarnished his own purity and virtuous self-image by coupling with the likes of Draco, after all.

Unlike what had happened between them earlier that morning where the innocence of sleep could be blamed, this new turn of events wouldn’t be so easy for them to deny or explain away. But they would both need to do just that of course, if anyone ever learned of it. The Chosen One and a Death Eater? The very idea was obscene.

Harry stirred beside him and Draco turned at the movement, his eyes blinking open. The green eyes trained on his were steady, devoid of malice, regret and disgust. In that moment, Draco knew two things: one, Harry had no plans to leave his bed that night, and two, he no longer had any plans to make him. Everything could wait till tomorrow.

Wordlessly, the room was cast into shadows.

Neither moved closer to the other; their bodies did not touch in the darkness. Soon the quiet was permeated by the gentle sound of Harry’s snores. Draco continued to lie there, eyes open as he stared into nothingness, still very much awake.

Draco still disliked Harry Potter, and he hated the way the Gryffindor seemed to interfere in his life so disastrously, whether he tried to or not. But what he truly hated was how good the arsehole had made him feel. His experiences in the past—when he’d done similar things with Pansy, or Blaise, or various others—paled in comparison.

He wanted to do it again.

 

 

 

Once again, Draco was the first to wake when morning came. At some point during the night, the two young men had drifted closer, possibly in the search for warmth. Now, Harry lay behind him, his body moulded against Draco’s, arms wrapped around his waist. It was not difficult for Draco to mistake the palpable accompaniment to the embrace—the hard, firm length which pressed into the cleft of his arse. Just like the day before, the two of them had become entangled in a compromising position—this one even more intimate than the last—but this time Draco didn’t panic or attempt to wriggle away. Instead, he lay there within the circle of Harry’s arms and wondered just how the Gryffindor would react when he awoke.

Draco didn’t remain there because he was pleased about the situation. In actuality, he was fuming over the truly idiotic decisions he’d made over the last day. Getting drunk and allowing himself to become vulnerable to these damnable feelings of his had been moronic, and as a result he had acted on them with little thought of the consequences.

Just because he’d gotten off with Harry Potter hardly meant that he’d undergone some radical change in perspective; it wasn’t as if he suddenly thought it was acceptable to be attracted to the cocky half-blooded, Muggle-loving martyr. But despite the persistent self-loathing and regret which nagged at him, Draco couldn’t help smiling slightly to himself from within the confines of Harry’s arms.

What would the Order of the Phoenix think of their precious Saviour if they could see him now?

It suddenly occurred to him that, for the first time in ages, he’d slept peacefully through to morning. Furthermore, the fact that he hadn’t been roused by Harry’s screaming the way he had the two previous nights suggested he’d also managed to sleep well. But then, while Draco had nightmares, Harry had indicated his nocturnal torment came from another source. Perhaps the Dark Lord had simply put the torturing on a brief hiatus.

Draco felt the other boy begin to stir behind him and forced himself to stay as still as possible despite the growing urge to escape. It felt as if he lay there for eons as the Gryffindor drifted slowly up from the depths of sleep. From behind him came a sleepy sigh, and some minutes passed before his companion became awake enough to gain awareness of where he was and what he was doing.

“Ha, sorry,” Harry said warmly, and to Draco’s surprise, no shock registered in his voice.

Unexpectedly, Harry didn’t let go of him. In fact, he tightened his arms further, and leaned forward to prop his chin on Draco’s shoulder.

“Hmm,” came Draco’s own rather ineloquent reply.

After that, neither attempted to say anything more. Draco knew one of them would need to speak or move eventually, and that if he was the one to do so, he could possibly keep some of his dignity intact. But Harry was warm and still very hard behind him, and the desire to stay a little longer overruled the need for self-preservation. Either Harry hadn’t noticed his erectness yet or he didn’t care, and as Draco continued to wait, he realised he really wanted to find out which one it was. He knew he should have moved away when he’d awoken rather than staying cuddled up with Harry; it was much easier to remain in denial when he was the only one conscious. Butterflies started to flutter in his stomach as his prick began to swell, and his own desires became more and more sure. Experimentally, Draco wiggled his hips a bit and tensed his cheeks as if he was simply trying to make himself more comfortable. And then he was rewarded with a tentative and gentle push forward, Harry seemingly unsure whether Draco’s movement had been incidental or deliberate. Draco moved his hips back again, brushing against Harry with slightly more intensity and that was enough for the Gryffindor to realise it had all been intentional.

After a few awkward repetitions, the two of them set into a slow rhythm, Draco rocking back and Harry grinding forward, thrusting against his arse with his hot, hard length. Draco’s own cock throbbed and ached, desperate to be touched, and he brought his hand down to palm himself through the thin material of his pyjamas. He tried to be subtle about it; he didn’t want Harry to know just how much he truly affected him. Perhaps, if he managed to tend to his own arousal surreptitiously, he could maintain some self-respect. Draco knew this was somewhat irrational, particularly since they had orgasmed in each other's presence only hours ago, but the thought persisted all the same.

It was difficult to be subtle with Harry’s arms still around him and, despite his attempts, Draco’s motions weren’t as discreet as he’d hoped. Suddenly he felt fingers dive beneath his waistband, a hand nudging his aside to grip a hold of the base of his cock. With a gasp, Draco shoved his pyjamas and underwear down his hips, allowing his cock and balls to spring free, and then Harry began to stroked him. A thumb danced over the slit of the head of his prick, slipping through the pre-come which had collected there. It continued to tease as the other fingers worked him, bringing forth a keening cry from Draco which caused him to stuff a fist into his mouth. A kiss seared the skin just beside his neck, sending frissons of electricity down his spine. The air was full of the sounds of pants and moans, as the sheets rustled and Harry’s hand slid up and down his length.

“F-fuck… I—I’m going to—” Draco gasped, and then a moment later his seed spurted forth, shooting onto the sheets and his pyjama shirt.

“ _Yesss_.” Harry hissed into his ear, his hand moving in long, languorous strokes as it pulled every last drop from him.

As the shivers of pleasure died down, Draco pried Harry’s hand away, flipping around in the other teen’s arms and pushing himself close. Ready to return the favour, he tugged down Harry’s pyjamas and the pants which strained against his erection, the fabric damp with desire.

Harry’s cock was different to his—a bit shorter, a bit thicker—and warm and velvety in his hand. Draco made quick work of him, stroking and caressing with one hand and massaging his balls with the other as he captured the Gryffindor’s lips in a fiery kiss. And then Harry gasped as he came in thick, ropey spurts over Draco’s hands.

“Sorry!” Harry gasped in mortification, pawing uselessly at the mess he had made.

Draco simply smirked and pushed his hands away. Still facing one another, the two of them allowed their breathing to settle.

Just as Draco was about to tell the other boy that it would be prudent for him to return to his room before either of the Tonks women caught them, Harry spoke. “Well.”

“Well.”

“Ron and Hermione will be here in a few hours…”

“Mmm. You should—”

“Yeah.”

For the next few minutes, they continued to lie there in silence, eyes averted.

“We’re both ignoring the huge elephant in the room,” Harry blurted suddenly.

Draco lifted his head to glance around, genuinely confused by the other boy’s words. He turned back to Harry, finding emerald green eyes fixed upon him, a solemn accompaniment to what was possibly a look of regret.

“I beg your pardon? Elephant?”

Harry gave him a small, sheepish smile. “Oh. Uh… sorry, it’s a Muggle saying. Not a literal elephant... It basically represents a very obvious thing that everyone’s very obviously ignoring.”

“If this ‘very obvious’ thing that you’re hinting at what I think it is, I honestly don’t want to talk about it,” Draco said warningly.

“Okay sure, but, just… just, there’s a very obvious difference between you and I,” the other boy continued.

Draco pushed himself up to a seated position. “Potter, why are you ev—”

“I’m not—I haven’t suddenly forgotten that we have a… a history, that’s all I’m saying.”

History.

Part of Draco felt dirty and insulted, another part was relieved, and a large chunk of him simply hated himself for not living up to the Malfoy image, something he once thought he’d perfected. A surge of frustration and abhorrence rising in him, he proceeded to assuage his self-loathing the way he always had—by casting his poison onto others.

“Why did you even come here, Potter?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Course not,” Draco sneered, moving out of the Gryffindor’s vicinity. “Well, better get going now, hmm? We wouldn’t want anyone to find out perfect Potter’s dark secret, would we? Rutting and squirting over a Death Eater… I’m rather surprised you had it in you, actually. You’ve always seemed quite the blushing virgin.”

Harry propped himself up on his elbows. “I know what you’re trying to do,” he said darkly, his cheeks flushing.

“Do you?” Draco asked coolly. “Perhaps you should worry more about your own affairs than whatever it is you _think_ I'm doing. Hmm, Potter... what would Weasley and Granger say if they knew about you sneaking into my bed for a quick fix or two? What about the She-Weasel? Aren’t the two of you _betrothed_? What would they think if they learned just how much you came undone, how you betrayed them all?”

Harry looked sickened by the threat. With one swift movement, he launched out of the bed, snatching his wand from under his pillow as he went. He stopped before the door then turned to glare at Draco, dragging a hand through his unruly hair. “Fucking hell, this act of yours is pathetic. You seemed pretty content at the time, Draco— _both_ times, actually. I was there too, if you had forgotten.”

Draco sniffed. “I wouldn’t read too much into it, Potter. I’ve been alone here the last month and you were the first warm body to come my way, nothing more.”

The dark-haired boy stared at him in exasperation, then with a growl of disgust, whirled around and left the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

Draco knew he’d done what he’d needed to do; he should have felt relieved but he felt unsettled more than anything. Perhaps in a few more hours, when Harry was gone, he would. With a sigh, he rose and went to the bathroom to wash away all evidence of his transgressions.

He was the last to arrive for breakfast. A bleary looking Tonks slid a hangover potion towards him as he sat down beside her, but he declined. Apart from his lingering bitterness and a mild headache— _likely Potter-induced_ , he thought darkly—he was fine, absolutely fine.

There was little conversation as they ate. Draco assumed Andromeda and Tonks attributed this—if they even noticed at all—to the amount of drinking which had occurred the night before. And then, by the time the hangover potions, coffee and bacon and eggs kicked in and the two of them had become more cognizant, everyone was busy cleaning up in preparation for the Healer's arrival.

The Healer came through the Floo shortly after and, following a comprehensive analysis, she confirmed that Harry had recovered enough to be able to resume his ‘normal activity’. Any discussion of what Harry was actually going to be doing was carefully avoided; while it went unsaid, they all knew it hardly came under the scope of ‘normal’. This time Draco stayed to listen, sitting conspicuously in the corner of Harry’s room for the entirety of the consult, though the Healer didn’t even spare him a glance.

Due to the oncoming arrival of the other two members of the golden trio Draco and Andromeda took a break from gardening and brewing that morning. Instead, the four of them played Muggle board games at the table in the dining room, and it became evident that Harry was just as useless at Scrabble as he was at Wizard Chess. The two young wizards managed to maintain a detached sort of civility, though Draco’s version of doing so mostly just involved ignoring Harry. Neither of the witches commented; while the atmosphere might have been stiffer than the previous day, it wasn’t to the extent that it roused their suspicions.

Just after they finished eating lunch, Harry pulled Draco aside, dragging him to the living room. He turned to face Draco with a sigh, pushing back some wayward sections of hair. “Uh… I know you’re pissed off,” he began.

“Am I?” Draco asked loftily as he leaned against the wall. “Do you have some great insight that you wish to bestow upon me? Should I ready my Quick-Quotes Quill?”

Harry closed his eyes in frustration, and it was evident that he was struggling to keep his infamous temper in check. “Look, I know… _things_ … happened between us. And no matter how much either of us deny it... we both enjoyed ourselves. But can you honestly tell me it was a good idea?”

“Of course it wasn't a good idea,” Draco snapped.

The Gryffindor shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest self-consciously. “Then, we should just forget it happened, right?”

“ _Obliviate_ ourselves, you mean?” Draco asked dubiously. “Are you honestly that daft, Potter?”

His comment received a weary glare. “That’s _not_ what I meant, and you know it. Stop being so…” Harry stopped, then took a deep breath. “I just wanted to make sure we’re of the same frame of mind here. Things happened yesterday… and today… things which really shouldn’t have happened. We both seem to know that. But… I’m tired of us being enemies, Draco; I’ve got enough of them already. I’m just… I’m just tired,” he finished, shoulders slumping in defeat.

Draco regarded the dark-haired figure before him. For someone who had supposedly been resting the last few days, Harry really did look tired. Truthfully, he didn’t look well enough to be setting out on whatever heroic quest was awaiting him, even if he had been given leave to do so.

“Very well,” Draco said finally. “It’s… look, you might be a vexatious git, Potter, but if you die, I’m hardly going to be celebrating or casting the Dark Mark into the sky.”

Harry quirked an eyebrow. “Uh, thank… you?”

“But,” Draco continued, “I’m still not on your side in this war… you know that, don’t you?”

Harry looked up at him, and Draco prepared for an argument. Instead, the Gryffindor fixed him with a rueful smile. “Yes, I know that. It’s not the first time you’ve told me. I suppose in a way I can understand your reasons, even if I don’t agree with them. But I hope you don’t decide to go back to You-Know-Who either. He’ll see you as a traitor.”

“He will.” There was no point in pretending otherwise.

“And…” Harry paused before deciding to continue, “He’ll kill you, and… and I don’t want to see that. I'm sick of seeing people die, Draco.”

He was being literal, Draco knew. _He’ll see the Dark Lord murdering me in his dreams, or visions, or whatever it is they are._

Harry sighed once more. “I best go and pack my things. Ron and Hermione will be annoyed if I’m not ready.”

It was a flimsy excuse; it wasn’t as if there was actually much for him to pack. But it served as a means of escape, and each wizard welcomed it gladly.

After the other boy wandered away, Draco forced himself to settle in one of the armchairs and read. He returned to his cousin’s book on tracking charms, deciding to leave _Dark Uprisings of the Modern Age_ for a time when there wasn’t a chance Granger and Weasley could make some spiteful comment about the title. He didn’t give a toss about what they thought of him but he didn’t want to unnecessarily rouse their suspicions either. As an outsider who knew nothing of the Order’s internal politics let alone its actual members, it would be reckless for Draco to underestimate the Gryffindors’ level of influence.

He really wasn’t interested in coming face to face with Granger and Weasley again. Hopefully their visit would be short, and then they’d whisk Harry away to god-knows-where to do god-knows-what, and life would go back to the way it had been before. Draco continued to tell himself that he was relieved, but part of him was disappointed that Harry was leaving. Every fibre of his being told him his attraction to the Gryffindor was repugnant and wrong; Harry knew it too—he’d practically said as much. But despite the venomous attitude he’d displayed in the attempt to maintain his dignity, Draco could hardly deny that what had happened between them had been _good_. Even if it had been wrong—and even if they both knew it—it had been good.

And now, such things were about to cease indefinitely.

He continued to sit there resolutely, staring vacantly at the words on the page before him as he heard the sound of the Floo and the rejoicing which followed it as Harry, Andromeda, Tonks, Granger and Weasley greeted one another. They seemed to sober quickly, their joyful voices lowering to hushed murmurs as the conversation was moved into the kitchen, chairs scraping along the floor as they seated themselves at the table. Draco assumed they were taking the opportunity to exchange information and possibly offer condolences to his cousin and aunt. A part of him wanted to creep closer and eavesdrop but the idea of being caught in the act outweighed his curiosity, so he remained seated.

However, when a chair scraped back and Harry spoke, his voice at its usual volume once more, Draco closed his book.

“I have to say goodbye to Dra—Malfoy.”

Weasley let out a disgusted splutter. “To Malfoy? Why?”

“We’ll come with you.” Granger insisted, but it was Andromeda who murmured a response, not Harry, and only one set of footsteps could be heard on the landing.

Draco hadn’t been sure if Harry would feel the need to say farewell. Although they’d managed to agree to a truce of sorts in the face of greater threats, there was still an uncomfortable tension between them. Draco wasn’t exactly Harry’s friend. Draco wasn’t exactly _anything_.

Regardless, he rose to his feet as Harry entered the room. The two of them stared at each other in silence, grey eyes on green. Then they both stepped towards each other, Harry moving faster to meet Draco on his side of the room. Pausing for the briefest of moments, Harry fixed him with a sheepish grin before throwing an arm over him in a half-hug. At first Draco was too taken aback to respond but then he hesitantly draped his own arm over the other boy’s shoulder.

No, he really couldn’t work Harry out at all.

How long had it been since he’d hugged another person? Years, most likely; he honestly couldn’t remember. It felt strange and awkward and too intimate for people such as them, whose relationship was so precarious and volatile and unpredictable.

They pulled apart and Draco felt his lips curve in a smile for reasons he couldn’t entirely understand, and for once he didn’t try to force it behind a steely exterior. After all, he supposed it didn’t matter how Harry saw him now; their fragile fiery bond was destined to fracture no matter how he acted in this moment. He could allow himself this, and then he would move on.

Harry swung his hand forward and bumped it into Draco’s in a friendly gesture. As their fingers brushed together in a final caress, Draco had a strange yearning to catch hold and prolong the moment but Harry had already stepped away, tucking both hands into the front pockets of his jacket.

“Don’t snap your wand this time,” Draco said. “You can’t borrow mine again.”

Harry smiled softly. “I’ll try not to. Hopefully I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

Draco knew Harry was lying about being hopeful, but that was okay. “Try to stay alive, alright Potter?”

“I’ll try.”

Harry fixed him with that lopsided smile of his which was so wonderful yet so terrible, and Draco wished he could pretend it existed just for him even though he knew it didn’t. And then the other boy turned and made his way back to the kitchen, back to Granger and Weasley, leaving Draco to stare after him.

Harry didn’t look back.

 

 

 

After the golden trio left, Andromeda and Tonks joined Draco in the living room. They were in the middle of a conversation as they settled on the couch opposite him, and continued it for a few minutes as Draco pretended to read. He suspected it was all for show; while he didn’t necessarily doubt that Andromeda planned on integrating more Spanish food into her cooking repertoire, he was certain they were hardly as invested in the topic as they made out.

As he waited to find out their real purpose for being in the room, Draco absently wondered what house Ted Tonks had been Sorted into at Hogwarts. House allocation wasn’t necessarily hereditary, but there were often familial patterns. Perhaps he’d been in Hufflepuff and Tonks had followed in his footsteps. Regardless of whether that was true, she’d still inherited more than an ounce of Slytherin from her mother, even if her attempts at subtlety were often unsuccessful.

Finally, the conversation lulled, and the two women turned to him. Draco held his breath and waited.

“Now that Harry’s gone, we need to talk about your wand, Draco,” Andromeda began.

Draco’s hand, which had been resting protectively on his wand from the moment they entered the room, curled to grip the hawthorn wood tightly.

Hesitantly, he lowered his book. “I had a feeling that was why you came in here,” he muttered.

“The Order isn’t comfortable with you holding a wand, Draco,” Tonks told him. “We talked about this when you arrived. You’ll need to surrender it to us for safekeeping.”

“Safekeeping,” Draco scoffed darkly. “I doubt that! It’ll be snapped, and I’ll be lucky to get the pieces back afterwards. There’s no use for my wand now that Potter’s got his own one again; that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

Tonks looked offended by the very idea. “Don’t be stupid, of course we’re not going to snap it!”

“That’s what happens with criminals, is it not?”

Andromeda sighed. “Draco, you knew you wouldn’t be able to have a wand, especially not when you haven’t repudiated your alliance with You-Know-Who. You haven’t proven your loyalty to the Light.”

“I don’t even know where in the world we bloody well are right now!” Draco growled. “I’m not going to get very far, even if I wanted to go back to _Him_.”

“Do you want to go back?” Tonks interjected. “Would you do it, if you could?”

He stared at her, incredulous. “Do I—do I _want_ to go back?!” he exclaimed. “I’m as good as _dead_ if I cross paths with any of them again! He’s tried to call me a number of times—surely you _do_ remember all those times when my Mark burned, and I had to just suffer through the pain of it?  I didn’t go to him—hell, I _couldn’t_ go to him, even if I wanted to, even if there were no sodding wards and I knew how to use your damn Floo. The Dark Lord isn’t exactly a forgiving entity, if you hadn’t realised that by now. I was already as good as dead when Potter and his lot slipped away from the manor, let alone when I disappeared soon after and never returned.”

“He may believe you were kidnapped,” Tonks pointed out.

He gaped at her in exasperation. “Tonks, honestly, you’re an Auror _._ _Think_ , for Salazar’s sake! Why on earth would he believe that, particularly when there were witnesses who saw them leave without me.”

“For your information,” she said coldly, obviously insulted. “I _was_ aware of that. I was curious about _your_ views on the matter.”

“I could never convince him I was kidnapped, even if I tried.”

“If you knew for certain your parents were there and you could do it, you’d go back though, wouldn’t you?”

He gritted his teeth. “If they were alive and me returning stopped them from being killed, then yes, I would.”

Tonks sighed loudly. “ _Merlin_ , Draco! I understand family loyalty, really, I do. But your notion of it borders on suicidality! I thought Slytherins were supposed to be about self-preservation, not self-sacrifice. Do you really think your father would stick his neck out for you if he was in your shoes?”

“How dare you,” Draco hissed. “Just because your f—”

At that, Andromeda stood up, silencing them both with a flick of her wand. “ _Enough_. We’ve moved beyond the point. This conversation is going to stop now before someone says something they regret,” she looked at Draco pointedly. Then, in a softer tone of voice, she said, “Your wand, Draco. Please.” It wasn’t a request.

She held her hand across to him, palm open. Tonks glowered beside her, wand trained on Draco.

Draco glared at them. He knew their reasoning made sense; if he was in their position, he would insist upon the same. In fact, he would likely have confiscated the wand days ago, and he’d been expecting them to do as much when its presence had become obvious. But having the ability to understand the situation didn’t rid him of the feeling of powerlessness which grated away at him.

Swallowing down his frustration and pride, he stepped forward and placed his wand in his aunt’s hand.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, tucking it into her robes as they both sat down again. “Since the two of you are silent now, you might as well listen to what I have to say.

“Firstly. Draco, as head of this house, your wand will henceforth be entrusted to me. Unless you are convicted and it is an official and punitive consequence administered by the Wizengamot or an equivalent, it will not be deliberately snapped. If you doubt me on this, I am willing to make a Vow to appease you.”

Draco regarded her for a moment, then shook his head.

“Very well. Secondly, Nymphadora takes her responsibilities as an Auror seriously and honourably, and to suggest she would act unethically in this situation is highly disrespectful given her continued efforts to ensure your safety.

“While Nymphadora may be overzealous and tactless at times—” here, Tonks shot a glare at her mother, “—her concern— _our_ concern—is valid.

“I would like to hope this is a temporary measure, Draco, and that one day you’ll be entrusted with your wand once more. I’m sure I don’t need to clarify how you can increase the likelihood of this happening.”

Draco just stared at her, though on the inside he was livid. A part of him knew these decisions made sense and that they were just being prudent, but the other felt as if he was being bribed to submit to the Light.

“I will release my silencing spell now, if you both agree to cease your antagonisms. That includes insulting immediate family members, no matter how… strongly one may feel.” She directed this last part to her daughter, who responded with a childish eye-roll.

Andromeda glanced at Draco, who gave a nod of sullen agreement. Tonks looked furiously at her mother for a moment, then also indicated her assent.

Andromeda removed the silencing spell, yet kept her wand out as she eyed them both warily.

Draco looked to his cousin, knowing what needed to be said. “If I implied that I am ungrateful or in doubt of your professional integrity, I apologise.”

Tonks gave a cold nod. “I appreciate your apology.”

Seeking an excuse to look away, Draco picked up his book and slowly opened it. He began to pretend to read again, forcing himself to appear unbothered by the recent events. Despite each person being able to speak freely once more, the room remained quiet save for the sound of Draco idly turning pages and Tonks tapping her fingers on the coffee table.

As was usually the case, it was Andromeda who ended up breaking the silence. “You and Harry seemed to overcome some of your problems during his visit,” she said mildly to Draco.

“Being hated by the Boy Who Lived is hardly going to do me any favours if he ends up winning the war,” Draco commented impassively, eyes still lowered to the page of his book.

“He was in your room last night… and this morning,” Tonks murmured, her tone vaguely goading.

He raised his head to stare coolly at his cousin. “I hope you’re not insinuating anything.”

“Why? Am I wrong to?”

Andromeda glared. “Nymphadora…”

While Tonks deflated slightly at the warning, she didn’t break her gaze with Draco. Curious, Andromeda looked to him too; it seemed as if both women were interested in hearing his response.

Draco closed his eyes a moment, then sighed. “No. You’re not wrong.”

“I see,” said Andromeda.

Tonks looked perturbed while Andromeda seemed deep in thought.

“I’ll spare you the needless concern,” he told them stiffly as he rose to leave the room. “It was a mistake. We both made a mistake, and it won’t be happening again.”

 

 

 

Tonks returned to her own home not long after, most likely at her mother’s suggestion. It had been awhile since the Death Eater topic had come up between her and Draco but it had only been a matter of time. They all knew this wouldn’t be their last conversation on the matter, but there was no point bringing the subject up again when everyone's patience was worn thin.

Andromeda was wise enough not to intrude upon Draco when it was clear he needed some time to himself. Instead, she retreated to her own quarters, closing the door behind her. It was likely she also needed her own privacy; she and Draco still hadn’t revisited their own discussion about blood-prejudice, and he could hardly believe she had a particularly high opinion of him at this point.

Left to his own devices, the house felt strangely empty, and Draco realised just how quickly he had become used to Harry’s presence even though his time at Almach Cottage had been so short.

Draco lay back on his bed, closed his eyes, and thought of Harry. He knew he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about the Gryffindor now that he was gone, but doing so was a reasonable distraction from the other shitty things which were plaguing his mind.

He pictured Harry and his myriad of facial expression, both the new ones and the old, imagining all of the emotions which could be conveyed with those piercing green eyes and sinfully talented lips. And then, he thought about what the two of them had done together and what else they could do if the opportunity were to present itself again.

The fantasy didn’t last long.

_“…It’s very clear you’re not on the Order’s side.”_

_“…There’s a very obvious difference between you and I.”_

_“_ _Things happened yesterday… and today… things which really shouldn’t have happened. We both seem to know that.”_

Harry was right. Their priorities and their lives were completely incompatible. There wouldn’t be a ‘next time’ and Draco knew he needed to resist the urge to indulge in pointless imaginings. He was loyal to his family and that would never change; it was and had always been his role to prioritise the needs of the Malfoys above his own petty wants.

The problem was, Draco couldn’t support the Dark Lord anymore; he knew it now without a doubt. But he also couldn’t do what Tonks, Andromeda wanted him to do either. He couldn’t support the Order; he knew they would destroy—and possibly even kill—his family without hesitation if they were given the chance. The Malfoys and their blood was most important—it always had been, and it was his duty to do everything he could to protect it.

“Draco, would you mind coming here?” Andromeda called from down the hall, interrupting his thoughts.

Stirring at the sound of her voice, Draco realised he’d fallen asleep; it was starting to get dark outside. For a moment, he considered pretending he hadn’t heard her, but when curiosity got the better of him, he climbed off the bed and made his way to his aunt’s bedroom.

He found her standing before the fireplace, watching it with her arms crossed against her chest.

“What’s going on?” he asked, coming to stand beside her.

“There’s someone else coming to stay with us,” she told him. “I know the last couple of days have been… challenging, and that this isn’t exactly the best timing. But we must accommodate everyone who needs our sanctuary, you understand.”

_Sanctuary?_

“I do.”

She nodded in approval. “From what I remember you saying the other day, the two of you know each other already.”

He didn’t have long to wonder at who it could be for the Floo roared then, signalling the new arrival.

A tall, sandy haired boy emerged from the green flames, gazing at them with solemn cerulean blue eyes as he brushed off his clothes.

“Yes,” Draco murmured; they did know each other already.

“Hello Mrs Tonks.” The boy nodded to the older witch politely, then stepped forward tentatively as he added, “Long time no see, Draco.”

Gazing uncertainly back, Draco reached forward to shake the extended hand. “Hello, Theo.”


	10. And Theo Makes Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although a willing beta, my sister KT refuses to read the HP books, as evidenced by the following comment:  
> "It took me all of chapter 10 and half of chapter 11 to be certain whether Severus was a person, a group, or a brand."  
>  
> 
> WARNING: This chapter contains references to physical and emotional abuse during childhood and adolescence.

Theo let go of Draco’s hand and turned his attention back to Andromeda. “Thank you for allowing me to stay at your home, Mrs Tonks.” He spoke softly, his manner impeccably respectful.

Andromeda fixed him with a warm smile. “It’s no trouble, Theodore; you’re most welcome. We’re used to a constant influx of visitors here at Almach Cottage. But please—call me Andromeda or Dromeda. My daughter Nymphadora will insist you call her Tonks—” she rolled her eyes good-naturedly, “—so it’ll be less confusing for everyone.”

Theo nodded politely. “Alright… Andromeda. I’m happy for you to call me Theo.” As he spoke, his eyes snapped quickly to Draco then back to her.

“Were you unable to bring any of your belongings with you, Theo?” Andromeda asked, noting that the slim Slytherin was emptyhanded.

The tall boy smiled slightly as he peeled off his travelling cloak, patting one pocket of his Slytherin robes. “I packed everything important into my trunk and shrank it before I left.”

Andromeda grinned and elbowed her nephew. “Ah that’s good to hear, isn’t it Draco? Otherwise you would have had to share all your new clothes.”

“Yes, wouldn’t that have been just horrible,” Draco deadpanned.

Theo’s eyes darted between them, his confusion evident.

“Honestly, Theo,” Draco chided, gesturing to his outfit and turning from side to side, “have you ever seen me look so hideous? Do you really think I’d wear something like this if I had a choice? I look like an impoverished Muggle, for goodness sake!”

Andromedra clucked reproachfully at him, but her eyes sparkled with amusement at his dramatics.

Theo’s eyes roamed over his clothes before he shook his head with a sheepish smile. “You’re right.”

Stepping closer, Andromeda placed a hand on Theo’s arm, just above his elbow. The tall boy flinched in surprise at the contact then blushed in embarrassment at his overreaction. “How about I show you to your room and the two of you can catch up while you settle in? Come with me.” Hand still in place, she led him out the room and down the hall.

“I’ll make everyone tea,” Draco addressed their retreating backs, ignoring Theo’s surprised backwards glance.

“Yes please!” Andromeda called over her shoulder.

Draco watched them approach a room with an engraved wooden door and raised his brows—he’d never noticed it before, let alone gone inside—then made his way to the kitchen.

Hand moving to his waist automatically, Draco sighed in quiet frustration as his fingers brushed over his belt, denied what they sought. He’d hardly had time to get used to having his wand back before it had been taken away again. At least he wasn’t as useless as he’d been when he’d first arrived; he was relatively competent when it came to navigating the kitchen appliances nowadays, and was reluctantly coming to terms with knowing that Muggle-brewed tea tasted better than its magically-assisted counterpart.

But recognising that he wasn’t entirely helpless anymore did nothing to stop his aggravation from resurfacing. It didn’t matter that magical energy flowed within his veins; without his precious length of hawthorn, he was barely more than a Muggle, particularly with Almach Cottage’s wards dampening his magic.

As he thought of the wards, he literally stopped in his tracks, pausing in the kitchen with his hand resting on his belt.

How exactly had he been able to use his wand, anyway? As he stood before the kettle waiting for it to boil, he struggled to recall whether he had performed any particularly challenging magic during his wand’s brief return. No, his use of it had been rather minimal and the range of spells less than extraordinary—apart from when he’d tended to Harry after being splinched. But the fact remained: Lupin had said he wouldn’t be able to use magic at all.

Evidently there was some issue with the wards.

“ _Lumos_ ,” he whispered, quietly, hopefully.

Nothing… but then, he’d never been capable of a wandless _lumos_ , so it wasn’t entirely surprising either.

“ _Accio_ teaspoon,” he tried instead, for Summoning was something he’d been able to achieve with simple, small objects in the past.

The teaspoon remained by the mugs, stubborn in its stagnancy.

“Fucking thing,” he muttered irately, picking it up and putting it on the tea tray alongside the sugar.

Merlin knew why his magic had seemed perfectly fine when he’d used his wand; the presence of the dampeners was evident as he attempted to Summon other objects with continued results without luck.

Regardless of whether or not the wards were properly functional (he wasn’t going to ask Andromeda or Tonks, that was for certain), Draco decided he’d need to put more effort into practicing wandless magic again. There was a reason why it was considered so difficult, but Draco _knew_ he was capable of more than these paltry Longbottomesque non-results, because he had been in the past. Perhaps Theo would help him practice.

Theo. Theo was here, a tangible link to the outside world, to his life; his old life. He’d be able to understand Draco’s perspective the way that Andromeda and Tonks never would because Theo had lived it too, had had the same expectations dangling over his head all his life.

Theo could be an ally.

The question was, would he be?

 

 

*

_ January, 1992 _

_“Enter.”_

_Draco stepped through the doorway and into the study, his footsteps soft and unobtrusive as he approached the fauteuil armchair which faced his father’s expansive mahogany writing desk. He slipped into it quietly, clasped his hands in his lap, and waited._

_Lucius Malfoy didn’t look up as his son entered the room. His attention remained on the missive before him as he continued to duteously fill the thick parchment with his flawlessly elegant script._

_Wordless minutes passed them by, no sound to be heard save for the gentle scratching of the quill, punctured by brief pauses as his father dipped it in and out of the inkwell. Draco kept his eyes lowered to his interlaced fingers, knowing better than to cause interruption by speaking or failing to keep still._

_Eventually, Lucius cast a wordless drying charm over the parchment then slipped his quill into its stand and capped his ink. Holding the letter up before him, he reread his composition, giving one satisfied nod before setting it to the side. Fingers steepled before him, he finally raised his eyes to his son._

_“You’re slouching, Draco.”_

_With an internal wince, Draco readjusted his posture accordingly. “My apologies, Father.”_

_Regarding his son once more, Lucius’s lips curved in approval. “Much better. Well, Dragon. I trust you are looking forward to your second term at Hogwarts?”_

_Draco smirked. “Certainly, Father. The first one was so… enlightening.”_

_Lucius quirked an amused eyebrow. “Indeed.” His expression hardened, and the smirk was erased from Draco’s face in an instant. “As you will be returning on the Express in a few hours, I felt it would be prudent to provide you with a final reminder of your obligations to this family.”_

_Draco’s brow twitched in a slight frown, his stomach lurching. “Father?”_

_“It has become apparent that you have been neglecting your responsibilities of late. As my heir and only child, you are the sole representation of the Malfoy name at Hogwarts. Any injudicious actions on your part may thereby sully not only your own reputation, but ours as well. I have had word of you consorting with some of your more objectionable house-mates, Draco. To hear of such carelessness on your part has caused great embarrassment for myself and your mother.”_

_The sick feeling in his stomach was rising with every second._

_“You will make a greater effort to maintain a distance between yourself and Theodore Nott from here on out. Do you understand?” His tone left no room for argument, not that Draco would ever dream of arguing with Lucius Malfoy._

_Someone had seen; someone had told his father. He hadn’t been as careful as he’d thought._

_Throat tight, Draco nodded. “I understand, Father.”_

_“Perhaps you have found it difficult to comprehend how your duties as both a Slytherin and a Malfoy can be simultaneously fulfilled,” Lucius mused. “Allow me to simplify this for you, Draco. Although his father’s reputation is incongruous, Theodore is a member of your house and is to be treated as such. In public, when intermingling with the rest of the Hogwarts cohort, all Slytherins are required to maintain a cohesive and unanimous front. Nevertheless, you will not deign to equate your house alliance with friendship. Such a relationship between yourself and young Mr Nott is highly unsuitable, and while it has been thankfully unnoticed by most, any further interactions may have significant repercussions upon our family. Therefore, in the privacy of your Common Room and within the dormitories, you will maintain an appropriate distance. You will not engage in any unnecessary conversations or associations. Is that clear?”_

_“Yes, Father.”_

_He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t._

_“Very well. Do not disappoint me again.”_

_“I won’t, Father,” he whispered. “I promise.”_

_Lucius gestured with his hand for Draco to stand. “I believe your intent to be sincere, Dragon, but alas, your promises alone cannot provide sufficient assurance. Come to me.” He crooked the finger of one hand, beckoning as he reached for his serpent-headed cane with the other._

_Squeezing his eyes shut for the briefest of moments, Draco rose to his feet, bile rising in his throat._

I will not cry. I will not scream. I will not cry. I will not scream. I will not cry. I will not scream.

_He did._

*

 

 

Tea tray in hand, Draco made his way back down the hall, stepping into the room into which Andromeda and Theo had entered.

Theo’s bedroom was almost identical to his in layout and size, though there were a few differences in décor. While Draco’s walls were pale yellow, the walls in this room were of a soft green. The furniture—bed, side tables, tallboy drawers, study desk and matching chair—were a pale beech, the bed topped with a simple white cover and adorned with a number of grey and sage coloured cushions. A charcoal coloured wingback chair was propped in a corner with a view out the window. While his own window overlooked the garden, Theo’s faced the front of the property, revealing a view of the long driveway flanked by whitebeam trees which Draco had spied from the living room windows.

Not for the first time Draco wondered just how many rooms were sitting vacant in the seemingly-sentient house, waiting to be filled with guests.

The tall wizard stood in the centre of the room, his attention fixed on Andromeda, who was speaking too softly for Draco to overhear. While he listened, Theo shouldered off his robes, folding them neatly before moving to place them on top of the travelling cloak which he’d already draped over the arm of the wingback chair.

“So, who chose all the paint colours in this house?” Draco spoke up, alerting them to his presence.

The two turned towards him, Theo’s lips parting slightly in surprise.

“The house chooses them,” Andromeda said breezily, ignoring his dubious expression. She accepted the mug of proffered tea and took an appreciative sip. “Ah, lovely. Well, I suppose I’ll leave you two to get reacquainted. Draco, I trust you’ll show Theo where everything is. I’ll aim to have dinner ready by seven.”

“Thank you again, Andromeda,” Theo murmured, his eyes lowered.

“It’s no problem at all,” Andromeda assured him, then made her way out of the room.

“Tea?” Draco offered, passing a mug to the tall Slytherin.

“Thanks,” Theo took the mug and set it on top of the tallboy drawers, then abruptly turned his back on Draco.

Frowning slightly at the rebuff, Draco placed the tea tray on a bedside table and watched as the other boy pulled his school trunk from his pocket, placing it on the ground before tapping it with his wand so it reverted to its original size. He wondered if Theo would be able to keep his wand or whether it would be confiscated like his.

What had Andromeda meant by sanctuary, anyway?

Theo turned his head to eye the different doors in the bedroom; judging by their positions, the room had the same layout as Draco’s.

“Those will lead to your bathroom and wardrobe,” Draco supplied.

Theo acknowledged this with a quick backward glance before making his way to each door, finally setting his trunk by the wardrobe.

“ _Finite Incantatem. Alohomora_ ,” Draco heard Theo whisper before he began to attend to his belongings, using wand-flicks and murmured incantations to levitate and unfold his clothes before directing them to the hangers which awaited them in the wardrobe.

Although Draco hid behind his usual mask of boredom, in truth he was brimming with curiosity, eager to find out why the other Slytherin had come. Most importantly, he wanted to find out about the happenings in the outside world, particularly whether Theo had any information about his parents. Andromeda and Tonks had remained infuriatingly tight-lipped for the duration of his stay, and he wasn’t sure if they’d tell him anything even if they could. Harry had told him about seeing Lucius in his sleep and he supposed that was _something_ , even if the Gryffindor had woken before he’d seen the outcome of his father’s punishment. His mother’s fate was still—distressingly—unknown.

Unfortunately, Theo’s persistently stiff stance and disregard gave Draco the impression he might be waiting a while before the sandy haired boy was willing to speak to him.

Draco settled himself on the bed, one leg crossed over the other as he sipped at his tea. As per usual, the taller boy arranged his things meticulously. Theo had always treated his belongings with reverence and care, keeping his clothes well-looked after and only replacing them when they’d been deemed unwearable. Draco’s fickleness when it came to updating his own outfits, meanwhile, was renowned. _Until now, anyway_ , he thought glumly, looking down at his donated ensemble once more.

It was hard to swallow the pang of envy as he continued to watch the items emerge from the trunk. He missed his own belongings, missed the money and privileges which had once been synonymous with being a Malfoy. Nowadays, threadbare Gryffindor cast-offs were all he had, in addition to a wand which had been confiscated, a small selection of toiletries, and a few books courtesy of Tonks. Apart from the wand, none of it he would have chosen himself; with his muddle of second-hand items, he felt lost, a mockery of the real Draco Malfoy. Perhaps if he could reacquaint himself with Theo the other boy would be willing to transfigure his clothing into something more agreeable (he was too proud to ask Andromeda and Tonks to do such a thing, but asking Theo wouldn’t be so bad).

Lifting his gaze from the trunk to eye Theo instead, Draco took in the white shirt, the dark woollen jumper and trousers, the silver and green tie. It wasn’t surprising that the Hogwarts uniform hadn’t drawn his attention until now. Seeing him dressed so was hardly an unusual sight after all, having slept in the same dorm for the last seven years. However, now he’d noticed, and the realisation led him to a set of deductions.

First and foremost, Theo’s journey to Almach Cottage had almost certainly started at Hogwarts, rather than from his own home or another safe-house, otherwise he’d be wearing personalised robes or Muggle clothes. Secondly, he’d likely been assisted by the Order—or sympathisers of the Order, at least—for the entirety of his getaway; while he looked somewhat tired, Theo’s tidy appearance suggested a prearranged plan rather than a spontaneous escape. Thirdly, his father’s wishes obviously hadn’t been granted. Draco had been summoned to meetings over the course of his seventh year, and had witnessed Theo’s father voice requests to his master on several occasions. His desire for his son to be Marked and enter fulltime service as a Death Eater rather than finish his studies was well known. His request had been denied each time; according to the Dark Lord, times were not so desperate that the education of future initiates should be sacrificed.

The Dark Lord’s mindset explained why Draco had been instructed to return to Hogwarts and complete his final year of schooling despite his controversial and premature departure at the end of sixth year. The command had served dual purposes, both educative and strategic. Although Draco was somewhat averse to the notion of returning, he hadn’t been stupid enough to say so; one learned quickly not to question the Dark Lord’s decisions, and he was well-versed with obeying his authority. Lucius would have supported the decision unequivocally if he’d had the opportunity to voice his own opinion on the matter. The Malfoy patriarch had always supported education and self-betterment, even if it involved attending a school which—until recently at least—was managed by a fool such as Albus Dumbledore.

Along with Severus as Headmaster and the Carrows as Hogwarts’ newly appointed professors, the Dark Lord intended for Draco to lend support to the Dark’s existing efforts within the school. Although his involvement in Dumbledore’s death was well known among the other students, the specifics—including the extent of his failures—were not, and this helped Draco cast a formidable and intimidating presence. Despite the recent demotion of his family’s reputation, he still held sway over his Slytherin peers—even those of Death Eater parentage—due to being the sole Marked student. Furthermore, his personal sphere of influence was great; a product of his father’s lifelong efforts. Though Potter had caused him to falter in the past, charisma and charm was instilled in him; Draco had the ability to enrapture others with a magnetism characteristic of the Lucius of old. Furthermore, he was cunning enough to successfully monitor those peers whose loyalty was deemed questionable.

In short, his reputation as an arsehole had been a major contributor in him staying alive.

It wasn’t hard to work out why the Dark Lord had always favoured Draco over Theo. Although Theo was markedly more intelligent than the other Death Eaters’ children and certainly possessed a healthy dose of the trademark Slytherin ambition, he had always been a more passive and solitary character. He had neither the confidence nor the influence the Dark Lord sought, a consequence of his loveless upbringing, and his own reputation been significantly marred by Nott Sr.’s social standing.

Theodore Nott Sr. wasn’t blind or stupid; he knew that the Dark Lord overlooked his son despite his and Draco’s commonalties: both pure-blooded wizards with similar upbringings, of the same age and house, and comparable grades in their classes. But evidently, the man had realised it was pointless for Theo to try to compete with Draco, and that he would need to bolster his family’s reputation in other ways. Consequently, he had set out to convince the Dark Lord to Mark Theo and allow him to enter active service, believing he would be a more valuable asset outside of school.

Of course, Draco had been out of the loop since December, and it was likely that things had changed in his absence. After his disappearance, surely someone else would have taken on his position. For all he knew, the role could have been given to Theo after all.

It wasn’t until Theo had removed all of his clothes and transferred his textbooks and writing equipment to the study desk that he was prepared to speak. Closing his trunk and guiding it to a corner with what appeared to be deliberate slowness, he finally turned around and faced Draco. The small smile he had conveyed to Draco in Andromeda’s room was nowhere to be seen. Now that they were alone, his old dorm-mate’s expression was wary. Draco couldn’t blame him.

“I must say I’m surprised to see you here,” Theo remarked finally, leaning against the wardrobe door.

Draco gazed at the other Slytherin impassively. “Likewise.”

“Everyone wondered why you didn’t come back after Christmas, though you were hardly the only one not to return. We figured you’d been removed from school for similar reasons to the others.”

“Who else didn’t come back?” Who had been promoted from candidate to recruit?

Theo shrugged. “A few sixth years. From our year, Vincent, Greg and Millicent. Vincent and Greg just followed after their fathers, of course… and I believe that Millie’s joined the cause as well, but that’s only a guess. My father… when he deigns to speak with me,” he added with a sneer, “refuses to tell me anything. I simply assumed you were with them.”

Draco shook his head. “No—I haven’t seen them since school. Millicent?” he repeated, wrinkling his nose. Her family had adamantly established themselves as neutral, so that surprised him. But then again, why should it? Why should anything surprise him now?

“Mmm, I’m pretty sure of it,” Theo commented. “She started acting strange just after Halloween. You didn’t notice?”

“No…” Draco couldn’t really remember noticing anything particularly different about her—or anyone—at all; he’d been too consumed by his own frustrations to notice anyone else’s issues. At that point, survival had been all that had mattered to him; monitoring his classmates had fallen by the wayside in the midst of performing well when supervising detention. He belatedly realised he hadn’t exactly fulfilled the Dark Lord’s wishes. “Why not you?”

Theo snorted. “My father’s _master_ —” the word was spat, “—still wishes me to finish seventh year. However, as of late, he seemed to have been taking Father’s efforts to persuade him otherwise more seriously.”

 _Is that why he’s here? Is he a deserter?_ It wasn’t something he could ask yet; Theo would hardly admit anything of the sort to him, and especially not without knowing why Draco was at the cottage in the first place.

“What about everyone who’s left?” Draco asked instead.

Theo quirked an eyebrow. “Oh, they’re about as talkative as ever,” he said bluntly, a pointed reminder that he was hardly popular with his peers, “but still there.”

At his words Draco winced internally, knowing he’d hardly helped matters; despite being dorm-mates, the two of them hadn’t talked this much in years.

“So, more than half of us seventh years have left school now,” Theo mused, “and now that I’m here, Blaise has the boy’s dormitory to himself.”

Draco snorted. “I highly doubt Blaise is sleeping alone.” Despite the frostiness he’d been exhibiting, Theo chortled in amused agreement. They both knew that without the other boys for company, Blaise was likely seeking other forms of entertainment.

Blaise Zabini was an enigma. Although notorious across Hogwarts for being an eccentric exhibitionist and a voracious flirt, those closest to him knew this to be a carefully curated façade. Although the persona he displayed in public was comprised of various facets of truth, much of it was artificial, serving to mask the boy’s high intellect and true ambitions. Those he chose to befriend soon learned that his fickle exterior was belied by a fierce loyalty and dependability towards those he cared about.

The small quip was enough to ease the tension between them somewhat. After a brief moment of hesitation, the other boy picked up his mug of tea before crossing the room to climb up onto the bed beside Draco.

Draco glanced at the lanky Slytherin propped against the pale wall beside him, biting his lip gently as he considered. “I haven’t seen my parents since Christmas,” he said finally. “Have you… have you heard any news of them since then?”

Frowning slightly as he eyed him, Theo shook his head.

“Not even in the papers?” he urged.

Sometimes Tonks brought newspapers to the house to show Andromeda and on occasion they were left on the dining table for Draco to peruse. While the Malfoy name had been thrown about from time to time, he’d seen nothing of import in the few issues he’d seen. However, being cut off from the outside world, he didn’t know whether the _Daily Prophet_ was no longer daily, or whether the editions were just hard for his cousin to come by.

“The _Prophet_?” Theo snorted derisively. “No, there’s been nothing in there except speculation. No actual sightings, no other reports.”

Draco nodded, trying to maintain a sense of calm. Hopefully no news was good news; surely if the Dark Lord had murdered either of them, it would hardly be kept secret for long.

“So why are _you_ here, anyway?” Theo asked, interrupting his thoughts. “I mean… you’re one of the last people I would have expected to come across in an Order safe-house. I know Andromeda’s your aunt, but I thought you were estranged.”

Draco proceeded cautiously with his answer. “I was injured in an incident just after Christmas. I arrived here via Portkey and I met Andromeda for the first time. I’m here for protection.” He was careful not to mention Potter, his mother or his undetermined wartime alliances.

Theo continued to regard him with a bemused expression, but Draco didn’t bother to elaborate further despite both being all too aware of the unhelpfulness of his vague explanation.

Breaking the silence, Draco gestured to him. “Well, I see you’re aware of Almach Cottage’s purpose.”

Theo nodded, his features momentarily morphing into one of hesitation before he seemed to come to a decision. He tilted his chin, blue eyes looking directly into Draco’s. “I’ve aligned myself with the Order of the Phoenix. Officially.”

Aligned. Andromeda had mentioned the provision of sanctuary, but Theo had said _aligned_.

Theodore Nott had turned his back on his father, on his destiny, and chosen Potter’s side.

Draco gaped despite himself, shocked both by Theo’s frankness and the fact itself. “So… does that mean you didn’t…” he lowered his eyes to the other boy’s forearm.

Theo rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, displaying the bare skin which lay beneath. “It almost happened,” he said softly, “but I got away before it could.”

“Salazar… your father’s been endorsing you for months; I’ve been there to see it. He’ll kill you if he ever gets the chance,” Draco whispered, continuing to stare even after the other boy’s arm was covered again.

“I know. I’d like to think he won’t get one…” The intensity of Theo’s gaze allowed Draco a glimpse what had been left unsaid: _so long as you don’t rat me out_.

Draco looked at the other Slytherin steadily. “I can’t even cross the bloody wards; your father won’t be hearing anything from me. And in regard to _Him_ … well, I’d wager he wants me dead for my betrayal as it is.”

Theo blinked in surprise. “Betrayal? Are you with the Order as well, then?” he asked. “I mean sure, I know you’re living here now, but the story you just gave me was so vague. And… well I know how you feel about Muggles and blood-status.”

“Apparently you don’t feel the same way, then.”

“Do you really think I’d be here if I hated non-purebloods?”

Draco rolled his eyes, then said, “Well, _I’m_ not with the bloody Order. Technically it was Mother who sent me here; I was unconscious at the time. I wouldn’t be here otherwise. It’s them who’re keeping me here.”

“Unconscious?” the other boy repeated. “And Narcissa sent you here? But… she’s not with the Order either, is she?”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “Merlin, Theo. _No_. At Christmas… I helped some prisoners escape from the manor. The Dark Lord had been summoned right before they Disapparated; she must have Portkeyed me before he could kill me.”

“Who were the prisoners that you helped?” Theo asked, eyebrows raised.

Draco pursed his lips then said, “Highly important prisoners.”

“So… you helped these prisoners escape,” Theo said slowly, “and now you’re here… so, are you a prisoner now? Because this is a _safe_ -house, not a holding cell. Whose side _are_ you on, Draco?”

“I’m a Malfoy. I side with the Malfoys.”

Theo raised an eyebrow and continued, ignoring Draco’s snarky tone. “Your parents still follow the Dark Lord, don’t they?”

“If they’re still alive they do.”

Theo stared at him. “And if they’re not? What about you?”

Draco stared back. “ _If_ they’re not, then I’m not getting involved. I learned too late that the Dark Lord is deranged. I’ll not fight for him.”

“Neutral?”

Draco rolled his eyes and let out a resigned sigh. “Yes… maybe. _I don’t know_! All I know is I want three things: to stay alive, for my family to survive, and for Potter to decimate the sorry fuck.”

The other boy gave a low chuckle. “Well we have that much in common, then. Apart from the family part, that is.” He pulled his eyes away to gaze towards the window.

They both sat in silence for a moment, each thinking of their Death Eater predecessors.

“No matter my feelings towards the Dark Lord,” Draco spoke up, “I’m not stupid enough to throw myself before him in battle. If my parents are still alive… I’m not going to do anything else which could fuck things up for them.”

Theo gazed at him solemnly, and it looked as if he wanted to say something more. In the end, however, he climbed off the bed and went to investigate the bathroom. Soon after, Draco followed behind, and the two moved onto more inconsequential subjects. He told Theo about Andromeda’s garden and the different types of potions they had been producing with the ingredients they harvested, and what they were planning to brew over the coming week. The confounding subject of Harry Potter remained unmentioned. Meanwhile, Theo recounted the different topics which had been covered in their mutual classes so far over the term, and wondered whether the two of them would be able to undertake their NEWTs at an external location if the war hadn’t abated by then.

Eventually Andromeda poked her head into the bedroom to summon the two young men for dinner, and they followed her into the main part of the house. As Draco watched the sandy-haired Slytherin curiously eye the various Muggle kitchen appliances from afar, he made a mental note to explain their functions later on.

 _Draco Lucius Malfoy, Honorary Mudblood; oh how my life has changed_ , he thought to himself sardonically.

He noticed the change in Theo as they moved from the bedroom to the dining room, how he grew significantly more subdued in the presence of his aunt, his nerves seeming to cling and gather around him like a cloak. It wasn’t particularly unusual for Theo to close off around strangers, adults in particular. He had acted similarly the entire time Draco had known him. Apart from Nott Sr., Theo’s adult company had been few and far between, primarily consisting of Hogwarts professors and his fathers’ associates, who were typically suspected Death Eaters or hailed from similarly nefarious circles. The most prominent and close relationship had been with his father and that was tenuous at best. An autocratic and callous man, Nott Sr. made no secret of the fact that he blamed Theo for his wife’s passing during childbirth. With such a history, it could hardly be a surprise that the other Slytherin had never allowed himself to trust or depend upon adults.

Andromeda had prepared paella and sangria for them (perhaps she _had_ been serious about cooking more Spanish food after all) and Draco found himself in the unexpected position of helping his aunt to include their new houseguest in amiable conversation.

Perhaps if Theo was staying for the long term, his aunt would be able to help him lower his defences and hence gain his trust. If anyone deserved to feel wanted, he figured, it was Theo.

 

 

 

Over the next few days the friendship between the two young Slytherins continued to slowly rekindle.

The day after Theo’s arrival the two Slytherins sat in Draco’s room and revealed the circumstances which had brought each of them to Almach Cottage. They exchanged cautiously worded tales, and while it was evident that much remained unshared, neither pushed the other to reveal more. As their parents’ progenies, they had both been raised to keep their secrets close. Such judiciousness was also the way of Slytherin House, where one quickly learned that words held power and could become the tools of blackmail if one was not careful.

Theo told Draco more about his father’s desperation for him to be Marked. On New Year’s Day when Nott Sr. had spoken to his son at length through the Floo in Severus’s office, his face and words alight with feverish desperation as he expressed his desire for Theo to gain the Dark Lord’s favour. It was then that Theo had realised the man’s priorities had shifted, and that rather than trying to withdraw his son from Hogwarts, he’d decided to convince the Dark Lord to accept Theo as his newest protégé. For the first time in years—possibly ever—Nott had seen his son as more than a mother-murdering encumbrance; all of a sudden, he’d held promise, the potential to please and succeed and thereby grant him a larger slice of power.

Before these terrifying conversations with his father started to occur, Theo had simply assumed Draco was undertaking work for the Dark Lord outside of Hogwarts. However, the conversations with his father seemed to imply something else, that the blonde Slytherin was no longer of use to the Dark Lord at all. Whether or not Nott Sr. was aware that Draco had disappeared—and just after Harry Potter’s escape at that—Theo could not say.

When his father announced that Theo had been granted audience with the Dark Lord at Malfoy Manor, it had become apparent that Nott Sr. was close to having his wishes granted. While there was no certainty that he would receive the Mark, it was more than enough to terrify Theo into finally seeking a means of escape.

When it came to describing his escape from his father’s clutches, Theo’s story grew vague, the details sparse. Perhaps in another time, Draco would have used his cunning to weasel more information out of the other wizard, but he was determined to shoulder off Lucius’s teachings, at least when it came to Theo. Theo explained that he had managed to contact a member of the Order and, after significant effort, had eventually gained their trust. He didn’t reveal who he had communicated with or how he had convinced them his intentions to avoid the Dark were both genuine and pertinent. But, whatever Theo had done, it had evidently succeeded, and he’d been snuck out of the school. While it could never be fully guaranteed, at this point it was expected that he’d be sheltering at Almach Cottage for the duration of the war.

Apart from the times when he disappointed his father, guilt had never been an emotion Draco experienced regularly. On occasion, he’d feel twinges of discomfort in his chest or belly, but typically he could rid himself of it by justifying his choices or simply forcing it away. His father had taught him that to feel such things was a waste of his energy and a sign of weakness; Malfoys served the interests of themselves and their family before others, and there was no shame in that.

After coming to Almach Cottage, however, these previously infrequent feelings of guilt had begun to rise more and more often, and now that Theo was here, Draco couldn’t rid himself of a relentless contrition which threatened to swallow him whole.

He was quickly coming to realise that, when it came to his treatment of Theo in the past, he’d made some truly terrible mistakes. At the time, he’d been blind to it; he’d been brought up to follow his father’s wishes unquestioningly, that blood came first and that Lucius’s decisions served the best interests of the family. But in being so mindlessly obedient Draco had betrayed a friend and left him to suffer alone. In the end, Theo had been unable to turn to the people who should have been there for him—his fellow Slytherins—and instead he’d had to reach out to the Order.

Slytherins were supposed to stick together; at Hogwarts, it had always felt like them against the rest of the world. Draco intended to right those wrongs now. He knew that the two of them, sheltering amongst the Order, would both be cast in the same light. It didn’t matter that Theo had joined the Order and Draco had not, or that Draco was branded with the Dark Mark and Theo was not. They were serpentile sons of Death Eaters, and those identifiers would tarnish them both.

While he was able to recognise these injustices, however, it never even occurred to Draco that he’d been judging Muggle-borns and Muggle sympathisers the same way his whole life.

 

 

 

After Theo moved into the house, Almach Cottage received a fresh flurry of visitors who popped in and out to see how Andromeda’s newest charge was settling in. Lupin was the one who showed his face most regularly; it was likely him who had sent Theo to Almach Cottage. One of the Weasley twins popped in from time to time; apart from Potter’s Weasel and the Weaslette, Draco had never been particularly concerned with learning who was who. They never addressed him, but, though he pretended to be stalwartly engrossed in his books most of the time, Draco noticed how the red head (or red heads; perhaps the twins were taking turns) looked at him. They were the same glares which had been bestowed upon him by the Healer who had come to treat Harry.

To them he was evil, he was scum.

He was a Malfoy.

Of course, he wasn’t completely unused to receiving such looks. He’d gotten them from Gryffindors throughout his years at Hogwarts, and from a good number of the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs too. Over the last year of course, it had mostly been when they thought he wasn’t looking. With Hogwarts beneath the Dark Lord’s thumb, people quickly learned to hide their dissenting emotions.

It felt somewhat different seeing those looks now, here within the confines of a place which was strangely becoming synonymous with ‘home’. It didn’t take long for Draco to come to the realisation that, if the Light was victorious, he’d remain the recipient of such looks for a very long time. In such a world, the Malfoy name would become akin to filth—in fact, for these people, it already had.

Similarly, in the eyes of the Dark, the Malfoys’ reputation had also toppled, though for different reasons. While the Malfoys had already commenced their efforts to regain their standing, they would surely never return to the heights from which they had fallen.

It seemed that, no matter the outcome, the Malfoys would not be emerging from the war unscathed.

 

 

 

Draco soon learned that no one had pressured Theo into joining the Order of the Phoenix; the boy had asked to of his own accord. He eventually explained to Draco that he’d never wanted to become a Death Eater, and not just because he didn’t have the stomach to perform the ghastly practices the role demanded.

He’d stared levelly at Draco before telling him that he didn’t hold the same sentiments about blood purity at all. In fact, he never had, and thought it all a load of crock.

When Draco had opened his mouth indignantly, Theo had waved him off, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m not ready to have this conversation with you now, Draco,” he’d said sharply before turning and leaving the room.

Draco had never considered the possibility that Theo could hold different sentiments to the rest of them, and not simply because he’d credulously assumed it was the standard opinion of his peers. Theo had hidden his true beliefs carefully, had played along well enough to convince his dorm-mates that he loathed Mudbloods and blood traitors just as much as the rest of them.

Theo’s confession made him wonder—if he’d been acting all this time, how many other Slytherins were hiding their true feelings about the war?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few notes about Draco. You might notice here and in the upcoming chapter that he experiences some rather contradictory feelings when it comes to Theo. As the two Slytherins reconnect, Draco becomes very protective of Theo and very upset by the injustices he has faced, yet unable to see many of the parallels between them.
> 
> Basically, Draco is only 17 and he's flawed, just like everyone. At this stage in his life, the 'Malfoy way' is still very deeply ingrained. He isn't removed enough from his own familial situation to sufficiently recognise just how damaging his own upbringing was, and that it was almost - or equally - as troubled as his friend's.


	11. The Choices We Make

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: References to physical and emotional abuse, torture, self-harm... and Draco's prejudiced diatribes.

It didn’t take long for Draco to realise that there was something seriously wrong with Theo.

Over Theo’s first week at Almach Cottage, Draco spent a lot of time observing the sandy-haired Slytherin and, despite the other wizard’s good-natured demeanour and slowly developing confidence, he found himself growing increasingly concerned.

He saw how Theo interacted with Andromeda and Tonks, his strained faux-smiles and forced laughs, the tense way he held his body, always on alert. He noticed how Theo flinched and jumped at unexpected noises, how he never seemed to relax. His friend wore a permanent look of exhaustion on his face, with dark bruises beneath his eyes and an unnatural pallor. And these days Theo was thin; too thin. He’d always been the tallest of the lot of them, always rather slim, but never as bony and gaunt as he seemed to be now. Draco would watch in frustrated silence as Theo picked at his food, claiming he’d never had a particularly large appetite, all the while knowing he’d eaten much more at school.

It seemed that while Theo had been reprieved from the future he’d never wanted he’d hardly managed to outrun all of his demons. As Draco spent more time both interacting with and observing him he became more and more certain that Theo was carrying a lot of darkness inside him and that he was coming close to breaking point.

Draco knew that although Theo had received a number of harsh beatings over the years, it was his father’s emotional abuse which had chipped away at his psyche the most. Each time he was torn apart by his father’s vitriol, Theo had had to gather and salvage what was left of him just so he could carry on until he was damaged again. When he was younger he’d had friends like Draco to lean on and help him through, friends who would cheer him up and remind him he wasn’t alone. But, as had become obvious when they started at Hogwarts, Draco hadn’t been the only one whose parents had warned them to stay away from Theo Nott.

Now that he was older and world-weary he could see the truth of it: they had all blindly obeyed their family’s wishes because to them it had been law. They had been young and naïve, putting too much faith in their parents’ wisdom. Those who hadn’t received such instructions, like Tracey Davis, had simply followed their peers’ example. Over time, their behaviour became normalised, allowing the status quo to be upheld. Only Blaise had been somewhat different from the rest of them, as Blaise was prone to be. Although he’d never been particularly close with Theo per se, he’d likely spoken to him more than the rest of them altogether.

At Hogwarts Theo had dealt with his isolation by pouring his heart and soul into his academics, sequestering himself in the library after dinner and more often than not staying there until curfew. With limited social influence and no involvement in extracurricular activities, he’d likely hoped that his grades would earn some modicum of approval from his father.

Now that Theo was at Almach Cottage where there were no classes, no assignments, and no accolades, he seemed to cling desperately and almost obsessively to the notion that they’d still be able to take their NEWTs somehow. Draco was concerned how his friend would react if—or more likely, when—they found out they wouldn’t be able to. Theo was already going through enough as he adjusted to the fact that all his efforts to please his father over the years had been for naught. What would happen if Theo had to let go of this as well?

Some nights Draco could hear the sounds down the hall as Theo sobbed in his sleep. His nightmares didn’t cause him to scream or shriek like Harry, but to cry and whimper as he begged for his father’s mercy. Draco had never heard him do this before, not even while they’d shared a dorm; what if his friend had been suffering through these nightmares throughout school too, casting silencing charms around his bed to prevent the rest of them from hearing? Each time the sounds started, Draco would jerk awake and lie there, staring up at the ceiling as he waited for Theo’s crying to end. He’d never felt more useless in his life.

 

 

 

It was Andromeda who pulled Theo aside in the end.

On that particular morning, Draco entered the kitchen just before dawn to make coffee. He was unsurprised to find his aunt already at the table sipping her own. The woman still had trouble getting enough sleep. He’d overheard her talking to Tonks about how she was often woken by dreams about Ted and how afterwards, she couldn’t fall back asleep. Despite her daughter’s protests, she still adamantly refused to try the Dreamless Sleep potion, even for one night’s reprieve. Theo’s nightmares were likely making things even worse.

Nodding good morning to each other, the two sat in amiable silence as they allowed their respective beverages to bring them back to life. Thankfully, the tension between them had dissipated once more, with discussions of alliance falling by the wayside since Theo’s arrival. The ceasefire of course, would only be temporary.

Draco was three quarters of the way through his coffee when he finally spoke. “I’m concerned about Theo.”

It had taken him some time to gather the courage to admit this to another person. In a way he felt as if doing so was betraying his friend’s confidence. But recently he’d begun to wonder whether, by keeping his friend’s confidence, he’d been betraying him all along.

Andromeda regarded him as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I am as well,” she replied softly. “I’m not sure if he’ll be willing to speak to me, but I was planning to try this morning.”

“Thank you.”

After breakfast, Andromeda asked Theo if they could speak in private before telling Draco that they’d both join him for brewing soon. Draco glanced over his shoulder at them from the doorway before he stepped into the yard, and while Theo’s face was taut with nerves, he nodded and sent a small smile to Draco to indicate he’d be okay.

Over an hour later, Andromeda entered the potions laboratory alone and for a moment, Draco panicked. With a reassuring smile, the woman told him that Theo had been given measures of Draught of Peace and Dreamless Sleep before retiring to bed to rest. She didn’t reveal what they had discussed and Draco didn’t pry. While he generally had no qualms when it came to eavesdropping or weaselling information—that’s what Slytherins did, after all—Theo was different.

After going through their inventory, Andromeda decided they would need to brew extra batches of Draught of Peace, Dreamless Sleep and Calming Draught so Theo could have a personal supply. Before joining Draco in the lab, she had contacted the same Healer who had treated Harry. While Theo’s potion intake would need to be carefully monitored in the long term, the Healer had approved twice daily consumption for the next fortnight. They set about brewing and Draco remained in the laboratory until dinner time.

Theo didn’t emerge from his room until the next morning. When he appeared for breakfast, he looked well-rested and calm, though disturbingly emotionless as he consumed his meal and the accompanying nutrition potion.

“I thought you were going to help him!” Draco hissed at Andromeda after the other Slytherin had wandered back to his room. “I hardly think that turning him into a medically-induced inferi counts as helping!”

“I’ve already been assured that what we just saw is a normal, temporary reaction,” Andromeda murmured in response. “Our first priority is for Theo to rest and regain his appetite. I assure you that the plan is a little more sophisticated than simply drugging him into a state of compliance.”

“It better be,” Draco said lowly.

His aunt looked at him evenly. “You need to be realistic though, Draco. I understand you’re concerned, and I am too. However, mind healers are going to be in short supply for the indefinite future. We can only do our best.”

Theo spent a lot of his two potion-laden weeks asleep. During his waking hours, he would disappear to talk with Tonks, Andromeda, Lupin or all three at once, returning to his room after an hour or so to nap. The rest of the time he spent with Draco, playing chess, scrabble and reading.

Draco learned more about what Theo and Andromeda had discussed in private. Theo would impart small chunks to him at seemingly random moments, his voice sluggish and flat. Although he felt unnatural and awkward doing so, Draco tried his best to follow Andromeda’s advice and respond encouragingly, swallowing down his own judgment, fury and remorse until he could express it in solitude.

Draco learned that he’d been wrong about Theodore Nott Sr. only serving harsh beatings on occasion. Murmuring quietly as they relabelled ingredients in the laboratory’s storeroom, Theo told him about the numerous trips he’d taken to the Hogwarts infirmary over the years after returning from the odd weekend home. Embarrassed about his black eyes and bruises and fearing Madam Pomfrey’s suspicion, Theo had learned how to prepare his own salves, which had consequently incited his interest in Healing. While it reduced the number of ailments present, it didn’t lower the number of visits he made to the hospital wing. Telling tales of at-home Quidditch injuries among other excuses, he managed to filch potions to counteract bouts of internal bleeding; broken ribs and other ailments were healed by the medi-witch. He told Draco how he’d become adept at lying and making up stories, or so he’d thought.

Things had finally come crashing down after the Christmas break in fourth year, when he’d returned so severely injured that Pomfrey had threatened to bypass Severus’s and Dumbledore’s authority and contact Wizarding Family Services personally. Terrified, he’d confessed the truth. It had led to hushed meetings with Severus and Pomfrey in his office, where his Head of House had tried to convince him to stay at Hogwarts during breaks and weekends instead of going home. Theo had refused every time, fearing his punishment would only worsen if he tried to avoid it. Severus must have had a word regardless, for while the reprimands never ceased, Nott Sr. became more paranoid about sending Theo back to school in need of medical attention.

It was somewhat fortunate for Theo that Nott Sr. was among the Death Eaters arrested at the end of their fifth year. Until the mass escape occurred, the Nott estate was empty save for Theo and his father’s two house elves.

Strangely, the man hadn’t lifted a hand to his son since his return.

It made Draco furious to discover that too little had been done to try and save his friend from the clutches of such a heinous man. Wasn’t Dumbledore supposed to be invested in his students’ welfare? And why had Severus not done more? Was it because Severus and Nott Sr. were fellow Death Eaters? Perhaps the consequences of interfering in Nott’s affairs had outweighed some unidentifiable gain.

Draco felt sick with guilt whenever his friend shared more, but in his mind, he felt like deserved the discomfort after being yet another person who’d let Theo down. He didn’t know whether Theo would ever forgive him—or any of the Slytherin seventh years—for their actions (or lack thereof), for shutting him out of their little group and leaving him to deal with his demonic father alone. How much different would things have been if Theo had had even just one friend?

As they continued to make up for lost time, Draco began to realise just how much he had missed the closeness the two of them had shared during their childhoods. All he could be thankful for was that the other Slytherin understood what it was like to be subject to the directives of one’s family, and that Theo seemed willing to move forward. Draco knew even as he tried to make up his mistakes now, his efforts could hardly eliminate the years of isolation. Theo’s trust couldn’t be regained overnight—perhaps, he’d never truly succeed. Regardless, he was determined to try all the same.

 

 

 

Theo’s presence in the house preoccupied Draco enough that he almost stopped thinking about Harry altogether. Almost. However, there were times when he gave up on pushing away the wanton thoughts which guided his hand to his prick in the late hours of the night, and times when black hair and emerald eyes were hazy remnants of his dreams. Sometimes he woke in languorous bliss, sticky and sated; sometimes he’d be filled with a sense of loss and yearning.

Of course, nightmares visited him far more often than not, and during such times he would find himself witnessing perpetually grotesque enactments of Harry’s death. Draco would watch helplessly as the Gryffindor was pummelled and raped, stabbed and torn apart, hit with curse after curse, emitting shrill, tortured screams as he was slowly rendered into a bloody and almost unidentifiable mess.

No matter what, it seemed as if Harry Potter would continue to remain a presence in Draco’s life in some form or another. It was almost enough to convince him to forgo his principles and imbibe Dreamless Sleep, just for some reprieve.

While the tension between Draco and Tonks had dissipated once more, it was obvious she hadn’t forgotten their brief conversation about Harry. From time to time, the Saviour’s name would come up in conversation and her eyes would quickly slide his way in an attempt to gauge his reaction. Draco hoped she was greatly disappointed by his incessantly impassive expression, how he neither welcomed the topic nor avoided it.

Harry Potter was nothing to him. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

 _“It was a mistake_. _”_

He had told her that the afternoon after Harry’s departure.

_“We both made a mistake, and it won’t be happening again.”_

He refused to give her—refused to give anyone—the satisfaction of knowing just how terribly he’d failed in forgetting Harry Potter.

 

 

 

On the occasions when he didn’t dream of Harry, Draco would find himself dreaming of his parents.

Even if she was the spitting image of her, the Narcissa who frequented his dreams wasn’t the same woman who he called Mother. No one could ever describe Narcissa Malfoy as a nurturing or affectionate parent; she’d always considered such emotionality to be undignified and improper. But this didn’t mean that she didn’t care for him; on the contrary, she was fiercely protective of her only son.

While in dreamscapes his mother was continually portrayed with angelic vivacity, his father was the embodiment of malevolence and brutality. The contrast between the two of them was stark, and in all honesty, a highly exaggerated imitation of reality.

Listening to his friend’s intermittent accounts over the last two weeks had led Draco to think about Lucius more than he wished to, and perhaps that was why his father was now permeating his dreams more than ever before. Unfortunately, Theo’s arrival had managed to trigger previously dormant memories, and Draco had been unsuccessful in pushing them away. When one was cut off from the harsh reality of the world it was much easier to live in a state of denial. When Tonks and Andromeda had been his only company, he could more successfully avoid thinking of the past. Even when Harry had been there, Draco had been able to continue pretending to an extent. But with Theo’s arrival, those quiescent facets of his past were reawakened.

Learning the truth of Theo’s circumstances had further confirmed Draco’s follies. His choice to follow his father with such unquestioning obedience had been a grave mistake. But it had been more than just naivety; Draco had feared Lucius too, hadn’t he? For while the man wasn’t as malicious as Nott Sr., he’d certainly had his own means of ensuring compliance. What else could he have done when merely a child?

Things were different now, though, and not just because his father was no longer present—physically or psychologically—to reprimand him. Draco was wiser, older, and now all too aware that Lucius Malfoy had never been flawless, had never been an all-knowing paragon holding a supreme sense of judgement. He’d been just as human as everyone else.

All former notions of reverence were progressively dissipating as Draco’s resentment of the man he’d idolised during his childhood grew.  Now, lingering in the aftermath of too many poor decisions, he could truly see just how royally the man had fucked up by directing their lives the way he had. Had it not been for Lucius, perhaps Draco wouldn’t have pledged his life to Lord Voldemort. Perhaps in an alternate universe, he wouldn’t be detained against his will in the name of protection, waiting and hoping he wasn’t found and murdered for being a traitor.

The same lessons had been taught to Draco all of his life—blood before everything—but Lucius’s choices had been a poor reflection of his words, hadn’t they? Maybe in the beginning he’d had the right intentions, but his priorities had become warped along the way. His choice to return to the side of a megalomaniac thirteen years after his downfall and bend his knee without hesitation was proof of that. His father had put glory over sanity, power over family. He’d thrust Draco onto the same path—for even if he hadn’t been brought into the fold early he would have ended up there all the same, helping to form the next generation of killers.

As of late, he’d been coming to the disconcerting realisation that, while he’d risk his life for his mother in an instant, he was no longer sure he could make the same sacrifices for his father. As time went on, his thoughts on the man were becoming more and more conflicted, a war between the former ‘truths’ of his upbringing and what he knew now.

He was beginning to hope they’d never meet again.

Lucius had set him up for this life, had raised him, had trained and prepared him to enter into a lie. Draco had envisioned a merciful and sagacious master, not a tyrannically deranged lunatic. It had hardly been a surprise that Draco had ended up a disappointment considering the magnitude of his first assignment; his mother hadn’t garnered an Unbreakable Vow from his godfather for nothing.  Yet Draco had been stupid enough to believe that he could be cunning enough, competent enough, ruthless enough to satisfy the Dark Lord.

Upon his return to the manor in early hours of July first Draco found himself promptly incarcerated within his own home. He wasn’t sent to the cellar—that was for traitors and enemies—but to a separate hell reserved for ‘re-educating’ the Dark Lord’s underlings. While there he’d been punished severely for his failings by a masked and merciless persecutor. It was only later that he learned he’d spent three days in the tiny cell; for him the days had blurred together as he’d drifted in and out of consciousness, the scent of blood and piss his constant company, his hoarse screams echoing off the walls as he begged for death.

They’d continued to keep him imprisoned, torturing him within the walls of his childhood home until finally, filthy and haggard, he’d been brought to his family’s parlour, where the Dark Lord had lounged like a king.

It was here that Draco was informed his punishment had been fulfilled and that his life was to be spared. Although he’d let down his master, his contributions towards the Dark’s most recent triumph would not go entirely uncredited; his efforts _had_ led to Dumbledore’s demise after all, even though Severus’s more capable hands had accomplished it in the end.

After his master had proclaimed this mercy, Draco’s gratitude was necessitated; he was no idiot. He’d fallen to his knees and thanked his lord for the honour of being ceaselessly brutalised and then being left alive at the end of it. And when he’d finally been given leave, he’d stumbled back to his bedroom and vomited bile and blood. Too weak to move, he’d fallen asleep in his own filth on the cool bathroom tiles.

Draco Malfoy, the Dark Lord’s failed protégé.

This was the reality that Draco had been initiated into, the world he’d so naively wished to be a part of. There was no glory in languishing in his own waste, no pride in kissing robe hems or curling up in the foetal position post-Cruciatus. There was no joy in surveying his mother’s decaying orchard or rifling through the pockets of a corpse or pressing into the walls when that wretched snake slithered past him.

He clung to the desperate hope that his father’s return would bring him some kind of solace.

But solace never came.

When his comrades were freed, Draco had been called to the parlour with all the others to welcome them back into the fold. He’d watched, frozen in place, as his father was guided into the room. There had been no hesitation in those blue eyes as his father—his once proud, elegant, and disciplined father—fell to his knees and _crawled_. Draco’s mask had veiled his expression of horror and disgust as he’d watched the once-proud Lucius Malfoy scramble to kiss the hem of his lord’s robes, prostrating himself as he cowered and begged for forgiveness. And then afterwards, his efforts had been rewarded with the Cruciatus Curse and Lucius had _thanked him._

It wasn’t that Draco was unused to this level of submission, for such pitiful acquiescence was adopted by all who wished to live. But, for some inexplicable reason, he’d still believed his father would be some sort of exemption, would still hold grace and refinement and power in the face of his master.

It had been sickening to finally see, to realise that this, _this_ was where the future of the Malfoy family pointed. Lucius’s fate, his future, his very life, all were held within the Dark Lord’s corpse-like hands. Draco had known it then, known that his father would do anything, _anything_ to survive and regain his reputation and his master’s trust. Not that Lucius had the power to do otherwise, even if he wanted to—he owed his master for his mercy, for his release from prison, for being allowed to live and thereby being granted a second chance.

Any spark left in Lucius soon winked out with his wand confiscated and his home reduced to a stronghold over which he had no control. He’d been shunted from the revered position of second in command, and Bellatrix and Severus had assumed his place. Now he was practically at the bottom of the pile with the other dreg, having to scrabble his way desperately back into his master’s good favour. While the Death Eaters swore their undying loyalty to the Dark Lord, while they fought side by side, there was little true steadfastness between his troop; one’s allies could turn on them in the blink of an eye. When every one of them was expendable, one could never know that their position was safe.

His father, the once pristine and untouchable Lucius Malfoy, was no more. Failing his lord had rendered him a hollow and broken doppelganger, no better than the other simpering sycophants. Seeing this, Draco had realised it would likely be up to him to make things right for the Malfoys once more, regardless of who won the war in the end.

The first rule had always been that the Malfoy family came first. Blood was always supposed to come before everything else.

It had all been a lie.

 

 

 

While February bore its usual coldness, the garden at Almach Cottage flourished as ever, seemingly impermeable to snow and the winter elements. Theo also wondered at the presence of different charms, just as Draco had done five weeks earlier. Andromeda had acknowledged Theo’s inquisitiveness in the same manner as she had Draco’s, wiggling her eyebrows and winking, but giving nothing away. Theo had glanced at him in mild exasperation, but Draco could only shrug. Despite trying to coax information from both his cousin and his aunt over the duration of his stay, he’d learned little about the Tonks property’s numerous oddities. He hadn’t been able to find out the specific weather charms which had been applied and what they were tied to—whether it was the land, the garden, the property as a whole or the wards themselves. It didn’t help that his theoretical knowledge was limited; there were various specialist arts that could be involved—be they elemental magic, warding, architectural wizardry or something else altogether. It also didn’t help that he had no idea of their geographical location, or what the surrounding land actually looked like; while he could see the rolling fields easily enough, he couldn’t trust it wasn’t an illusory view. In the end, he had to stow away his curiosity and accept that it was simply another quirk of Almach Cottage. He’d grown suspicious of the hallway too and how new doorways seemed to appear whenever a new bedroom was needed. However, as no one else had arrived to stay since Theo had joined them, Draco had been unable to observe any further changes.

After he’d begun his new course of potions and his sleep cycle had stabilised, Theo slid seamlessly into the established routine, joining Draco and Andromeda in the potions laboratory, and taking over the bulk of the work in the greenhouse. He was particularly interested in helping brew the restorative draughts, and the extra set of hands allowed the trio to work on a greater variety of potions. Andromeda started to develop a variety of poisons though she did so independently; Draco refused to contribute to these efforts, maintaining his original standpoint of working on non-injurious brews.

One day while preparing Skele-Gro, the sandy-haired Slytherin revealed that he hoped to train as a Healer after completing his NEWTs. The admission was a soft murmur, his expression shy and somewhat self-conscious. Draco couldn’t work out if he was ashamed of where his passions lay, or whether he doubted his own capabilities. While he didn’t ask, his instincts leaned towards the latter. Theo was the son of a man who’d spent his life condemning his endless inadequacy after all. After almost eighteen years of disparagement, coupled with his lonesome adolescence, it was no wonder Theo’s self-esteem was so low.

His fellow Slytherin had always been quiet, cautious and calculating, something which had been necessary with a father as volatile as his. He was still shy and reserved when he and Draco were with company, but had started to join in on the banter and jokes with Andromeda and Tonks more often, smiling more naturally and occasionally adding his own quiet witticisms. Tonks handled the matter like a true Hufflepuff, while Andromeda bore a sort of motherly patience which had been foregone in Theo’s own home.

 

 

 

One day in mid-February, Draco learned some surprising information.

It was midday and the three of them had decided to take a day off from the usual routine due to the weather. The rain was heavy and persistent, the clouds a dark bruise. Considering the weather charms around the property which had held off the worst of winter, it was a strange phenomenon. Unsurprisingly, Andromeda remained infuriatingly tight-lipped when the two young wizards questioned her about it. They didn’t persist, deciding instead to leave her to her own devices; she’d had a melancholic air about her from the moment she’d arrived—last—to the dining room that morning.

Perhaps the weather at the cottage was directly linked to the woman’s emotions. If so, Draco decided it was fortunate that she wasn’t a Gryffindor.

Armed with a chessboard, Draco made his way to Theo’s room, where the other Slytherin had headed after breakfast once they’d finished tidying the kitchen. When he got there, he found the other boy seated at his desk, bent over a piece of parchment. When he noticed Draco’s presence however, the note was hastily slid into a drawer.

Theo pushed the drawer closed and fixed Draco with a casual smile. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Draco returned, eyebrow raised. “What are you up to?”

“Just studying.”

“And writing a letter, from the looks of it.” Normally he wouldn’t intrude on such a thing, but his curiosity got the better of him. Theo was in hiding right now; who could he write to? And who exactly was it, if he felt the need to hide it?

“Ah, it’s not an urgent one,” Theo said casually. “It’s not exactly easy to send letters at the moment, after all.”

“That’s true,” Draco responded, unconvinced. He paused. “You do know you’re acting rather suspiciously right now, don’t you?”

From what Draco had witnessed (even while trying to disregard him) Theo had always been somewhat of a loner. Beyond Slytherin he associated infrequently with a few other students from Ravenclaw while in the library, but this seemed to relate to studying more than anything else. But obviously Theo wasn’t as solitary as he’d believed.

The second part of his friend’s statement got him thinking. What if it _wasn’t_ difficult to send letters? If Theo could do such a thing, what method would he be using? The Floo? Would Andromeda let him use her owl?

And then he realised.

“I don’t know who you’re writing to, Theo… but Tonks is delivering the letters for you, isn’t she?” Yes, that had to be it. Tonks travelled back and forth frequently enough and Theo had grown more confident in his interactions with her than Andromeda, probably because she was closer to their own age.

Theo blinked rapidly, and from the slight pinking of his cheeks, Draco could see he’d been caught off guard. “Who would I really write to on a regular basis?”

Draco looked away, taking the time to pretend to think as he watched the other boy from the corner of his eye. Theo had provided a non-answer, and was trying to put a dampener on Draco’s interest by reminding him of his friendless reputation. But it was a ruse. Theo _was_ writing to someone regularly; he knew it.

“Obviously if there is someone, you don’t want me to know who,” Draco said, “but by applying the law of parsimony, I believe I can narrow the options down. My assumption is that you’re giving your letters to Tonks and she’s delivering them for you. For that reason, I would guess that you’re writing to someone who is either a member of the Order or one of their sympathisers. She wouldn’t help you if it put her or the Order itself in danger. And if I’m correct so far, I’d say there’s a pretty good chance that they’re the person who helped you run away. They’d be a person on the inside, a liaison… a professor maybe, but I don’t think so. Hmm, no… I think you’re writing to a Hogwarts student who relays information to the Order.”

He saw Theo’s eyes widen slightly and knew he was right, or had at least been somewhat correct.

“But of course, I don’t know who that person is,” Draco added.

They regarded each other silently for a long moment.

Finally, Theo let out a deep sigh. “I’ve been writing to Neville Longbottom.”

Draco wrinkled his nose. “ _Longbottom_?” he repeated dubiously. “ _Neville Longbottom_ helped you escape Hogwarts?”

Theo looked mildly annoyed at Draco’s reaction. “Yes. He did.”

 _Nymphadora Tonks. Andromeda Tonks. Kingsley Shacklebolt. Remus Lupin. A Weasley twin—or both—though most likely the whole kit and caboodle. Theodore Nott. Neville Longbottom._ Draco’s list of known Order members was growing.

The idea that Neville Longbottom could possibly be of help to anyone was laughable in Draco’s mind, and even as his friend glared at him he couldn’t help the smirk which fought its way onto his face.

“Don’t be a git, Draco.”

Draco wiped the expression from his face and nodded. “Alright then. You’re writing to Longbottom. So… you’re friends with him?”

“Yes, I’m friends with _Neville_ ,” Theo agreed, emphasising the Gryffindor’s first name.

“Okay. Well… if I promise to behave, will you tell me about it a little?”

Theo’s eyes were cerulean chips of ice as they narrowed suspiciously.

Draco raised his hands in a gesture of peace. “I’ll keep my opinions to myself.”

After assessing him a few moments longer, the other Slytherin nodded, and proceeded to explain how his friendship with Longbottom had originated, thereby filling some of the holes which had been present in his previous stories. As Draco listened, his face kept carefully blank, he realised that what he was hearing was still a highly abridged recount. While part of the reason likely related to Theo’s wish to keep some details private, he also knew it had to do with his own alliances remaining questionable.

Theo explained how he’d decided to seek out Neville, how he’d determined that if any student could help him get in touch with the Order of the Phoenix, it would be Neville Longbottom or Ginny Weasley. They’d both always been close to Harry Potter—Neville as his dorm-mate, and Ginny as his girlfriend—or ex-girlfriend, nowadays. Theo knew they’d been implicated in certain events concerning Harry over the years, including the one which had led to their fathers’ arrests. In the end, he’d picked Neville as the safer choice to seek out. To outsiders, it would seem less strange for him to be speaking to his year-mate; with no common classes, friends or extra-curricular activities, there was little reason for he and Ginny to cross paths.

When the Christmas holidays had come, Theo had stayed at Hogwarts despite his father’s insistence. As he had in past years, Severus had offered to provide an excuse for him, and for once, Theo had accepted. Severus had informed Nott that his son would be assisting him with ‘important work’, work which would certainly be looked upon favourably by the Dark Lord. Accustomed to not questioning the nature of other Death Eaters’ business, Theo’s father had complied readily.

In the end it had just been words—Severus hadn’t actually provided him with any work. However, the headmaster didn’t know his true reasons for staying at the castle—that Theo was trying to evade his initiation as a Death Eater, and was staying so he could attempt to get in contact with the Order.

While many students born into Dark families went home for Christmas, most of the other students had stayed at the school. Even with the likes of the Carrows and Severus roaming the castle, it was safer to stay within the confines of Hogwarts. While there was little that the other professors could do for their students in their precarious positions, they continued to offer what little protection they could.

Fortunately for Theo, Neville had been among those who had stayed at the castle. Apparently he’d become rather elusive however, and it had taken Theo some time to find the Gryffindor, let alone gain an opportunity to speak with him. In the end, he’d happened upon him quite by accident. Listening to his recount of the strange door which had appeared on the seventh floor, Draco knew Theo had found the Room of Requirement, but he didn’t allude to this, of course. Apparently Longbottom had been sitting in the room on the other side of the door and had disarmed Theo immediately in a surprising demonstration of reflexes and magical prowess.

The first conversation had occurred at wand point. Several other exchanges had followed, though Longbottom managed to keep his wand pocketed for those. In the beginning Longbottom had been suspicious of Theo’s motives—of course he had, for didn’t all Gryffindors automatically assume all Slytherins were Death Eater scum? But eventually, Theo’s concerns had been deemed sincere enough to warrant action. A number of oaths had needed to be sworn, but Theo had managed to earn his trust in the end, which had enabled him to be introduced to some of Longbottom’s Hogwarts allies.

Longbottom had gotten in contact with the Order members on the outside and they’d snuck Theo out of the school, though he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—specify just how they had managed to do it.

“Does Longbottom know where you’re staying?”

Theo nodded. “He knows I’m at Tonks’s family home, but not where it is.”

“Does he know I’m here too?”

“Yeah, I told him. He voiced his concerns.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Indeed.”

Theo grinned and pulled out the letter again, smoothing his hands slowly over the parchment somewhat self-consciously.

“Chess when you’re done?” Draco asked.

“Sure. Won’t be long; I’ll come and find you.” Theo had already picked up his quill, all attention on his missive once more.

Draco turned away, but not before the words ‘I can’t wait to be together again’ managed to catch his eye.

 

 

 

“I can’t find Andromeda. Has she gone out?”

“Order business.”

“Ah.”

Draco eyed the plate of sandwiches in the centre of the table and the two mugs of freshly brewed tea.

Theo gestured to the second mug. “This one’s for you. Lunch?”

Stepping closer, Draco joined his friend at the table. Shooting a quick glance of suspicion at the sandy-haired boy, he placed a few sandwiches onto a plate and took a sip of tea. With a smile, Theo picked up his own sandwich and began to eat.

“So, speaking of the Order,” Theo said after a few minutes of quiet eating, “Tonks and Andromeda asked me to talk to you.”

Draco groaned, bringing his hands to his temples. “Oh Salazar, not this again!”

Theo smiled dryly. “Yup, I’m afraid so. Apparently you’re too shut off with them.” He quirked an eyebrow. “They think you’ll talk more to me.”

Draco snorted. “More like they don’t accept my views and they’re determined someone will be able to change them if I’m continually engaged in debates.”

“You may be correct there,” Theo replied. “Strangely enough, the two of them are still hoping you’ll come around.”

He rolled his eyes. “Of course they are.”

“Yeah. Maybe Andromeda’s got a bit of Hufflepuff in her. Merlin knows why, but she doesn’t want to believe you’re just an imitation of Lucius.”

Draco stiffened at the mention of his father. “Well, I’m not. You _know_ I’m not.”

Theo shrugged. “Well, not really; how would I know, exactly? This is the first time in years we’ve spoken this much, remember. All I’ve got to base my opinions on is what your father was like when we were kids and various things I’ve seen and overheard at Hogwarts. Oh… and what Andromeda and Tonks have told me, of course. Anyway… from what I’ve heard, you’ve obviously got some hesitations about stepping away from the Dark Lord, let alone joining the Order.”

“‘Some hesitations’?” Draco repeated scornfully. “Well, that’s a fucking understatement if I’ve ever heard one.”

“Tell me. I can probably relate more than they can.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Are you planning to quell my fears, ease my concerns; is that it?”

Theo grinned. “Not particularly, you stubborn arse, but I’ll try and talk some sense into you if I feel the situation warrants it.”

Draco scoffed. “You’re the one who needs sense talked into—”

“Draco,” Theo interrupted, “you’re dithering.”

The blonde Slytherin glared. “Concerns, huh? Well, me dying is a rather noteworthy concern. Pretty sure I’d prefer to be killed by Light wizards than Dark ones. I’m more confident that Potter’s lot would take care of things quickly and cleanly like the noble bunch they reckon they are. _His_ lot on the other hand… well, they find more joy in the process than the end product, don’t they? Of course, I’d prefer not die at all. I figure if I can manage to stay neutral it’ll maximise my chances of long-term survival.”

“What else?” Theo prompted.

“Gryffindors. The Order’s full of stinking Gryffindors. How can you even tolerate Longbottom?”

Theo smirked, but didn’t answer his question. “And?”

“Family loyalty.”

“Is that everything?”

“No.” Draco sighed. “The Dark Lord may be twisted and insane now, but he was different when my family first joined him. His principles still make _sense_. A purer world, where the boundary between the magical and the Muggle would stay clear and separate. Et cetera, et cetera. You know the argument; you were raised with it just like me.”

The other boy sighed resignedly. “Sure, Draco, I know the argument. Just because it’s an old one, doesn’t mean it’s a good one.”

“So you all keep trying to prove. But there’s a reason it’s endured so long. Maybe _some_ of what Andromeda’s preached has broadened my perspective—I can admit that—but I can’t say my outlook has changed. The Light, the Mudbloods… they threaten our way of life, Theo. The Dark Lord’s original premise makes more sense than the Order’s wishy-washy Muggle-loving, magic-sullying, blood-bastardising fantasies.”

“Good thing it’s me you’re sharing these sentiments with; anyone else would have punched you in the face by now,” Theo remarked. “You still think pure-bloods are better than everyone else, huh?”

“Think? We _are_ better, Theo.”

“Why?”

Draco stared incredulously at his friend but Theo simply waited expectantly for an answer.

“What? You really want me to…” Draco sighed, rolling his eyes. “ _Fine_.” He turned away from the other boy and began to echo the words that had been reiterated to him time and time throughout his life. “The members of pure-blood families carry literal magical history within their veins. We—and don’t forget that’s you too, _Nott_ —hold generations of magic within us which have been proudly preserved and protected by our forebears. Our magic is clean, whole, and unspoiled, neither watered down by Muggle filth, nor not been tainted or mixed by less intelligent beasts. It is the right and responsibility of a pure-blood to be proud of their ancestry, determined to maintain their lineage as they pass down the traditions of old to the next generations. So many lines have been wiped out over the centuries but _we_ have survived; we have _endured_ , and we owe it to our ancestors to keep enduring. Every union should be made mindfully, made for the good of the family, their offspring, and the wizarding world as a whole.” He paused, then added, “It’s even more important when blood traitors like the Weasleys exist, breeding like rabbits and refusing to die out. Most of those Muggle-lovers seem to hardly give a hoot about legacy nowadays.”

Theo stared at him and for a long moment, he said nothing at all.

“You do realise that everything you just said is absolute bullshit,” he finally commented.

Draco glared at his friend’s amused expression. “Don’t look upon me as if you are so much more enlightened, Theo. It’s crass.”

Theo smirked. “It’s rather hard not to, my dear Draco, when your thoughts are so… obtuse.”

“Well of course the argument would mean nothing to you. You _are_ a blood traitor now, and you hate your father. I’m sure you hardly care what happens to the Nott name anymore.”

Theo let out a short bark of laughter. “Too true, I’ll admit. Perhaps we’re just as biased as each other.” The boy reached over and plucked Draco’s cup from him. “Care for another? I assume we’ll be here awhile.”

With a reluctant nod from Draco, Theo prepared their tea.

A few minutes later Draco accepted his cup and took a sip before restarting the conversation. He waved a hand at Theo. “Well go on then, present your counterargument if my own opinions are as unfounded as you so obviously believe. Try and win me over and what-not. That’s what they asked you to do, after all.”

Theo rolled his eyes. “‘Counterargument’, right.” He paused a moment to collect his thoughts. “Well firstly, the whole blood purity argument is defunct. It’s wrought with holes, really. I mean… ‘pure’ blood. Have you not noticed how little that seems to matter?”

“Did you not hear my earlier words, Theodore? It matters a great deal.”

“Well, here’s a question for you: why?”

“Because Muggles and wizards shouldn’t be mixing. Our worlds should be separate.”

“But I’m talking about blood, Draco. Does having pure-blood make one more of a wizard?”

“There’s more magic in their bl—”

“Squibs.” Theo cut in.

“Squibs are a tragic consequence of our need for selective breeding,” Draco interrupted, “it’s an unpreventable risk that our families must take.”

“And a high prevalence of them are born into pure-blooded families. And then they go and marry Muggles and generations later, Muggle-borns crop up. Seems rather counterproductive to the pure-blood cause, doesn’t it?”

“Well Squibs shouldn’t be breeding with Muggles, should they? It’s biological pollution.”

Theo groaned. “ _Biological pollution_? Merlin, Draco, are you even listening to yourself? There’s so much inbreeding among pure-blood families and you think _that’s_ the bigger issue?”

“Malfoys are not inbred,” Draco replied stiffly.

“Aha!” Theo thrust a finger at him. “And remind me why that is!”

Draco simply sipped at his tea and glared.

“‘Wizard-ness’ is not a subjective measure, Draco. We’re not more magical than Tonks just because she had a Muggle-born father. The purity of one’s blood has no relation to magical fortitude or ability. Just look at Vincent and Greg. The two of them are just shy of being Squibs themselves!”

“Yes, well, perhaps a _handful_ of families have made less considered choices in terms of breeding,” Draco conceded.

“And then, another example—the existence of powerful half-bloods. People like Dumbledore and Severus. Probably Tonks too, come to think of it. And Severus… I mean, he’s the Dark Lord’s right-hand man now, headmaster of Hogwarts too. Most importantly, he’s your _godfather_ , Draco, and you seem to like and accept _him_ despite his ‘inferior’—” Theo emphasised the word with air quotations, “—blood status. How do you explain that?”

“My family has always held a deep respect for Severus,” Draco responded archly. “It was my father who advocated for him in the first place because he recognised his potential. Apart from his… unfortunate origins… he adheres to Malfoy standards almost perfectly. He certainly makes up for his lack in terms of his cunning, shrewdness and—yes, _fine_ —his power.”

“Ah, so _he’s_ an exception?” Theo pressed.

Draco glared. “ _Yes_. He has Prince blood in him; it was evidently enough to counteract his mother’s poor choices.”

“Perhaps,” Theo allowed. “Hmm… anyone else? Oh, Potter’s a half-blood, you know. It’d be stupid to deny that _he’s_ powerful. Even you have to admit he’s done a stellar job of staying alive all this time.”

“Potter’s a walking anomaly with an overabundance of Gryffindor luck.”

“How interesting that every exception I come up with seems to be an anomaly. So many anomalies,” Theo mused. “Ah… seems like I missed one other example...” Judging from the look on his face, however, he’d left it out deliberately.

“Go on.”

For a moment Theo sat and silently considered Draco. Finally, he smirked, his expression startlingly sinister. “Has it ever occurred to you just how much your father has kept from you?” he asked softly.

Draco narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

His friend’s features in this moment were unnervingly similar to his own father’s. “Draco Malfoy, daddy’s little Death Eater. Initiated into the inner circle, Marked as one of the Dark Lord’s own. I bet you’ve found out all sorts of fascinating things now that you’re on the inside. But did it ever occur you that everything you’ve learned has been carefully controlled? Even though you’ve risen in the ranks, you only know what they want you to know. Our parents have always kept secrets from us; what makes you think that would ever change?”

Draco eyed the other Slytherin levelly. “I’m not interested in games, Nott. Tell me what you know or piss off.”

“Certainly. Does the name ‘Tom Riddle’ mean anything to you?”

“No,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “Why? Should it?”

“Hmm,” Theo remarked nonchalantly, “well, it’s not a pure-blood name, is it?”

“No, Theo, it’s not a pure-blood name,” Draco snapped impatiently. “Why should I care who Tom Riddle is?”

Theo bent forward. “Seems like I was right. Lucius did keep it from you. Neville told me he barely batted an eye when Potter tried to taunt him with it in the Department of Mysteries. I guess even he’s had to admit to himself just how redundant the old arguments are.” He smiled and leaned forward. “Tom Riddle, my dear friend, is none other than the Dark Lord himself. Your leader, your _master_ , who is determined to rid the wizarding world of ‘tainted blood’ had a Muggle father!”

Draco’s stomach lurched.

“You know I’m not lying,” Theo said softly. “What would be the point? And yes, my father knows too—they were school friends, remember? All the older Death Eaters know what he is, and they allow him to lead them anyway.”

“Why?” he murmured.

“Power, of course. He has it in abundance; so long as his followers can share in his glory and get a taste of it for themselves, they’ve willingly overlooked his shameful paternal ancestry. Rather hypocritical, wouldn’t you say?”

 _He’s not even a pure-blood wizard_.

“Of course, he’s not proud of his heritage,” Theo added. “He’s dreadfully ashamed, hence the secrecy.”

_Tom Riddle. Riddle, after his Muggle father…_

“How long have you known?” Draco’s words sounded hollow to his own ears.

Theo’s face softened somewhat as he saw his friend’s expression. “Not long. Not so many people know it nowadays, but the information is there if you search hard enough. It was Neville who told me most of it though, not my father.”

Draco took a sip of his tea and nodded blankly.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so dismayed, Draco,” the other boy commented.

“The idea that my father…”

“Is in servitude to someone such as him?”

“It’s hard enough to see him bowing to _anyone_ , let alone…” Draco’s head snapped up. “Did he know before he was initiated, or did he find out later?”

Theo shrugged. “No idea. But you see my point, don’t you? Having pure-blood doesn’t guarantee you power, and it doesn’t necessarily guarantee magic either. The Dark Lord operates on hypothetical principles. He’s just as ‘impure’ as those he wishes to cast out of the wizarding world. How exactly can you believe that he’s invested in pure-bloods when he’s willing to eliminate blood-traitors too? He _kills_ his own followers when they displease him. He’s prepared to take down _anyone_ who stands in his way; can’t you see that?”

Draco shook his head. “None of this matters. I can’t turn on my family, Theo.” _I can’t put Mother in danger._

“But you don’t have to be on their side, either!”

“Hence my decision to be neutral unless I can assist in their emancipation. I _will not_ be responsible for their deaths.”

Theo regarded him solemnly. “If he wins, you’re fucked no matter what. You might as well fight on the right side, on our side.”

“ _Our side_?! You’re a _Slytherin_ , Theo, in case you haven’t forgotten. They’ll never truly accept you. You’ll never be one of them.”

“The Order accepted Severus,” Theo argued.

“Yes, and look how well _that_ turned out for them.”

Frowning, Theo bit his lip and looked away.

After a moment, Draco sighed. “I just don’t understand why you’d put yourself through that when you could be neutral and avoid the stigmatisation. You could stay here, lay low till the fighting’s over and _live_ rather than dying a thankless death for an organisation who’ll never trust you, and who likely expects you to turn on them anyway.”

Theo’s eyes flashed as he turned back to Draco. “I know it doesn’t make sense to _you_ , Draco, but when I joined the Order, I did so because I _wanted_ to, not because I felt like I ought to. I didn’t do it to earn myself a ticket out of Hogwarts or to gain their trust or so I could prove myself to a bunch of Gryffindors. I did it because I don’t _like_ the shitty ideals that You-Know-Who and his followers preach, that my father has tried to beat and manipulate into me my _entire life_. I did it because I don’t want to turn on the people I’ve known for seven years and _kill them_. I knew that by joining the Order, I’d be adding an extra wand to their artillery. I’m not interested in sitting back and blindly hoping they’ll be capable of saving our collective hides. You know me, Draco. Since when have I relied on anyone to fight for me? Since when has _anyone_ fought for me? How could I not fight for myself now?”

Theo had a point. He never had been able to rely on anyone else, because there had never been anyone he could depend on. And just because the Order fought for the Light, it didn’t mean he’d mindlessly hand his trust over to them.

“So you’ll turn on your own house instead? The people who’ve roomed with you, eaten with you, considered you their family for the last seven years?”

Theo’s face was grim. “While I don’t believe _every_ Slytherin is on _His_ side, I’ve never been considered family. Your parents warned you all to keep your distance. Sure, we Slytherins all stick together, but no one got closer to me than they had to.

“I don’t _want_ to kill anyone, Draco. I’m not turning on my house; it’s select members of Slytherin who are the ones turning on our school, our world. What the Dark Lord is working towards is no utopia.”

“My family…”

The other boy interrupted him. “Your family has made some terrible mistakes. It is not your job to follow them and suffer the consequences they brought on years ago.”

“I am the sole heir!”

“ _Exactly_!” Theo exclaimed, “and their choices could end up costing you your life, Draco. They may have tried to give you a sibling, but they couldn’t in the end, could they? I remember you telling me how upset they were, how your mother could die if they kept trying. You’re _it_. Once you’re gone, the line is dead.”

_“Blood comes before everything else.”_

_“Your family’s needs must always be served above your own, Dragon.”_

_“The Malfoy bloodlines must be kept pure and alive so that the heritage and traditions may be proudly passed down to future heirs.”_

His father had drummed in his lessons well, yet because of him, his family’s entire existence was in danger. Whether the Malfoy line was kept alive or not depended on the whims of a megalomaniac.

Could Draco change their destiny by stepping out of his family’s shadow? Theo was right—he didn’t have to walk the path dictated by the Dark Lord just because his mother and father had chosen it. He’d never be forgiven if he turned away from them; he could even be disowned. But if blood _truly_ was supposed to come before everything else, then maybe it was a sacrifice he had to make.

Then again, without him, the Malfoy line was dead; Theo was right about that. If Lucius were to disown him, it’d all be over.

“From what I see, there’s a number of possible outcomes for you,” Theo spoke up. “First option: You stay faithful to the Dark Lord. If the Light wins, and you’re still alive, you’ll likely be sent to Azkaban for an indeterminate length of time. Alternatively, if You-Know-Who gets a hold of you instead, he’ll likely kill you regardless of your loyalty, or at the very least torture you to within an inch of your life and kill your family just to spite you.

“Second option: You choose to be neutral in the war. If the Dark Lord or his minions find you, you die in a very similar way to option one. If the Light wins, you might be safe, or they might not think you’ve done enough to warrant a pardon or reduce whatever sentence you receive for your previous crimes. Furthermore, you’re a sitting dove.” He paused. “No… I don’t think that’s the right type of bird. Muggle sayings make no sense.” He shook his head. “You’ll basically have to wait and hope that things turn out okay for you.

“Third option: You join the Light. You help make a difference and if you’re lucky, you earn a reduced sentence. You’d be a good addition, Draco. You’re a skilled wizard. You’ve got training and knowledge that you can offer others. If you’re caught, you’ll still be killed by the Dark Lord, but the way I see it, he’ll be doing the same regardless of which choice you make.”

Draco had already stated that he’d be neutral in the war, that he wouldn’t choose a side. Theo’s words got him thinking; would he truly be satisfied sitting around for months—hell, it could be years—waiting and hoping the Order knew what they were doing? Living with Andromeda, Tonks and Theo, and always wondering what their strategy was, how the war was progressing? Could he handle being in the dark and trust them, rely on them to keep him alive when he knew how much he was loathed?

“Potter’s powerful too,” Draco murmured. “He’s a half-blood.”

Theo blinked, surprised by Draco’s reversion in topic. “Yeah, he is.”

“Do you think he’s powerful enough to kill the Dark Lord?”

The sandy-haired Slytherin shrugged. “Word is that Potter has a plan. Not sure what, though. I don’t think anyone knows the whole of it, except maybe Weasley and Granger.”

Draco nodded thoughtfully. “You know my views aren’t exactly compatible with the Order’s. I think you mentioned me being at risk of getting punched in the face?”

Theo sent him a wry smile. “Your views are rather outdated and offensive, even to me, someone who’s spent a lifetime hearing the same crap. But on the other hand, your views aren’t exactly compatible with the Dark Lord’s, either.”

“I can see the sense in some of what you’re all trying to say to me, but so much of it goes against everything we’ve been taught.”

“No one expects you to change overnight.”

“I’m a Death Eater.”

“ _Ex_ -Death Eater.”

“A _Slytherin_ ex-Death Eater.”

His eyes met blue ones, and the sandy haired boy sent him a smile.

“Who cares if we’re Slytherins,” Theo said softly. “This war goes beyond house rivalries, Draco. Maybe not everyone sees that yet, but one day they will.”

 

 

 

One morning in late February, Draco woke up with a strange sense of decisiveness. Perhaps it had been the Dreamless Sleep he’d grudgingly allowed himself to sample the night before, but for once, he felt well-rested rather than exhausted or anxious. As he stared up at his sun-dappled ceiling, a smile played upon his lips. Certainty felt good.

He showered and dressed then made his way to the dining room. While Andromeda wasn’t there, she’d left a note on the table saying she needed to make a call in her room and not to be disturbed. He dropped the piece of paper back down and made his way up the hall anyway, taking a deep breath before he raised his fist and knocked on her door.

As the internal silencing charms were lifted, he heard Andromeda say, “—Sorry, hold on just a moment,” but she was talking to someone else, not him. He listened as she approached the door then stepped back as she opened it a crack, peering out at him.

“Draco, what’s going on? Is something wrong? I’ll be done soon.” She frowned slightly, concerned; he’d never come and disturbed her before—the note had been written with Theo in mind.

Draco shook his head. “Nothing’s wrong.” He fixed her with a steady gaze then said, “I’ve made up my mind.”

Andromeda raised her eyebrows, understanding the meaning behind his words immediately. “And what have you decided?”

“I want to be a part of it.”

His aunt regarded him for a moment then nodded approvingly, her eyes twinkling as she opened the door wider. “Well then Draco, perhaps you should come in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Yes, the last section seems to have 'jumped ahead' a bit in terms of Draco's mindset. It's about 10 days since the last conversation with Theo. However, things aren't quite as straightforward as they might seem; as you'll soon see, Draco's hasn't turned completely pro-Light all of a sudden.
> 
> Thanks for reading so far :)


	12. Veracity and Fealty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note :  
> As of 25/04/2018, the conversation in Chapter 5 between Draco and Tonks regarding his loyalties has been expanded and now involves Remus Lupin, who is mostly a witness rather than an active contributor.  
> In summary, Draco is considered a prisoner of war, and this status is associated with the following rights:  
> -To receive humane and respectful treatment  
> -To be provided with adequate food, clothing, shelter and medical healing  
> -He cannot be forced to undertake tasks which are debasing, or those which may put his physical person or magical energy at risk.  
> -The right to refuse Veritaserum  
> -He is only obligated to state his name and age when under questioning, and shall not receive punishment (whether it be corporal, psychological or magical) if he refuses to provide information pertaining to other types of questions  
> -At the end of the war: he will be placed into custody (at either the Ministry or Azkaban) to await trial or will be released, depending on the war’s final outcome.  
> -The right for his family to be notified that he is in the Order’s custody.  
> One right has been denied and that is the right to engage in two-way communication with family via owl. As the Malfoys are established members of the opposing belligerent force, the Order will not honour this final condition.  
> These rights are similar but not identical to those established within the Geneva Convention for prisoners of war (#wizardingworld).

Draco knelt before the fireplace, Andromeda by his side. Gazing into the green flames, he announced to the stern faced Kingsley Shacklebolt that he wished to submit formal repudiation of his loyalty to the Dark Lord and his role as a Death Eater. He informed the Auror that he’d reconsidered his previous decision to stay out of the war altogether, that he instead wished to actively support the Order of the Phoenix.

The response he received was what he’d expected: brief, the words stilted and laced with suspicion. The conversation lasted just long enough for Shacklebolt to make arrangements to visit Almach Cottage with Remus Lupin the next day. Then, after a weary glance at Andromeda, the man ended the call.

Once the two of them were alone again, Andromeda rocked back, resting her hands on her knees. “I presume you have an idea of what their visit will involve?”

“Veritaserum,” Draco responded flatly.

“You had the right to refuse it before,” she continued, “but this is a different circumstance.”

He gazed at her levelly. “I know. I can handle it.”

Until now, Draco had seen no need to expose his vulnerabilities to the Order by imbibing Veritaserum when he was well within his rights to decline it. Since his arrival, he’d had no particular motivation to gain anyone’s trust other than Theo’s, and consequently no desire to suffer under the effects of a potion to serve the needs of others. Now, however, he needed to prove his loyalties and there’d be no option to negotiate the Order’s means of procuring information.

“You also understand that some of the questions they ask may be ones you’ve refused to answer on previous occasions?”

Yes; the realisation had occurred almost immediately. It was another non-negotiable consequence of his decision, one which made him justifiably apprehensive.

“The two of them will question you rigorously, Kingsley in particular.”

“Have you seen this happen before?” While Draco knew an interrogation was unavoidable if he wished to proceed down this path, he preferred to be as prepared as possible, rather than only having assumptions to rely on.

“I haven’t,” Andromeda admitted. “And I wasn’t… required to undergo questioning when I joined the Order either. However, I do have some awareness of how these sessions often proceed. Kingsley and Remus will wish to determine a number of things when they speak with you—your reasons for switching sides, for example, what you can offer the Order, your future intentions, your views—whether they’ve changed, or—”

“—What if they haven’t?”

She paused, her expression softening as her brown eyes regarded him. “Draco, if your views were the exactly the same as they were when you first came here, you would never have sought me out this morning. I remember what you said to me—you know, just after Ted passed? You were adamant about staying neutral and not picking a side at all.”

“Ah, though perhaps you’ve spent so much time around Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs that you’ve forgotten how good we Slytherins are at strategizing,” Draco responded wryly.

Andromeda let out a derisive snort.

“But it’s true; I’m not like the rest of you,” Draco insisted. “You know that. The Veritaserum will prove it the moment Shacklebolt and Lupin start to ask my opinions about blood-purity or Muggles or whatever. Perhaps I _know_ some of my sentiments are outdated, but I can’t just… make them disappear at will. It’s not as if I’ll be able to pretend to be a goody-goody Hufflepuff. You’ve heard some of the things I’ve said; ask Theo—what I’ve said to him is probably even worse. What will they do when they hear something they don’t like?”

She regarded him thoughtfully as the two of them stepped out into the dining area, their conversation ceasing for the moment. Theo stood in the kitchen, the lanky Slytherin staring down at the kettle with furrowed brow as he waited for it to reach boiling point.

Andromeda grinned. “Good morning, Theo,” she called, causing him to jump. She leaned against the kitchen counter, propping her chin on her elbows. “Do you need any help?”

Theo smiled sheepishly as he glanced around the kitchen. “Well… I think I’ve almost got the coffee organised, but… oh! I’ve forgotten the food!” He scrambled towards the toaster, peering anxiously into the depths of the grate.

Chuckling, Andromeda moved to join him, pulling her wand from the confines of her robes. Leaving her to help Theo, Draco moved to the larder to gather condiments instead. Depositing them on the table, he sat down to wait, staring down at his clasped hands as he continued to consider his upcoming meeting. The strange certainty he’d awoken with had faded away, replaced with a leaden feeling in his stomach.

 _It’s the feeling that you’ve just made a very stupid decision,_ his mind supplied.

A few minutes later, he was joined by his fellow Slytherins, as well as three oversweet coffees and a plate laden with warm but slightly blackened toast.

“Well, at least it still looks like toast this time,” Draco commented drily as he smothered a slice with rhubarb compote.

“Maybe I like it this way,” Theo retorted before biting into his own piece with exaggerated relish.

“You’ve done well,” Andromeda commended, though her words were somewhat contradicted by the scrape of her knife as she removed some of the burnt edges from her breakfast.

“Well, thank you, Andromeda,” Theo responded emphatically. “ _Everyone_ has to start somewhere, after all.” He glared pointedly at Draco, who simply smirked.

After slurping some of his coffee and failing to fight down his grimace, the sandy-haired Slytherin spoke again. “So, I noticed you spent a bit of time in Andromeda’s room this morning, Draco.”

Draco’s smirk faded, and he took his time to sip his coffee before responding. “I made my decision. Shacklebolt and Lupin are going to be coming to interrogate me tomorrow.”

“Finally!” Theo grinned. “It took long enough to convince you. That being said, I’m still rather surprised you’ve had such a quick turnaround in perspective.”

Draco lifted his head and met his friend’s eyes resignedly. “I haven’t.”

“You’re not convinced?” Theo asked, perplexed.

“I’m convinced siding with the Order is the most prudent decision for someone like me,” Draco responded. “As for… the rest…” he shrugged.

Theo pressed his eyes closed and nodded. “Yes, ‘the rest’. That may be a problem.”

Draco nodded. “Especially when questioned under Veritaserum.”

His friend narrowed his eyes in confusion. “Then why are you even going through with this?”

“Because what you said to me the other day made sense,” Draco told him. “It’s practical; it’s sensible. If the Dark Lord gets his hands on me, the likelihood of me surviving the encounter is slim. That won’t change, no matter which side I’m on. Harry Potter and his friends escaped the manor. As a witness, I’d be seen as having a share in the responsibility. If the fact that I _also_ directly helped them has been discovered, I’m most definitely a dead man. Regardless of my own personal sentiments, going back to the Dark would be a stupid decision.”

Andromeda exchanged a glance with Theo. “You’re no longer willing to sacrifice yourself for your parents?” she asked.

Draco looked down, pushing the toast crumbs around on his plate with a finger. “I don’t want to lose my mother. But Theo made a good point the other day—if I die, there’s no other Malfoy heir to take my place, not unless my father successfully impregnates someone other than my mother. At least if I side with the Order, I might have more of a chance of making it out of the war alive as well as some control over my future.” He smirked wryly at his aunt. “Shacklebolt and Lupin aren’t going to approve of my motivations, are they? Those aren’t the selfless Gryffindor reasons they’re going to want to hear, after all. Under Veritaserum there’ll be no chance of me making declarations about … about ‘fighting for the greater good’ or because ‘it’s the right thing to do’ or any of that kind of rot.”

Theo reached for another piece of toast. “Some of the details are rather foggy, but I don’t remember saying anything like that during my own questioning and I didn’t get turned away.”

Andromeda nodded in agreement. “I think you’re oversimplifying the situation, Draco. Do you really think you’re the only person in this war who comes from a complex background or has conflicting beliefs? Do you really think the Order is only comprised of pure and saintly beings?”

“Of course not,” he snapped.

“Why on earth would you expect them to be so narrow-minded then? Why would they even bother to give you a chance if that was the case?”

“But Draco’s incompatibility _is_ a valid concern, is it not?” Theo interjected. “You do remember what you said about the Order a few days ago, right, Draco? About how their ‘wishy-washy Muggle-loving, magic-sullying, blood-bastardising fantasies’ threaten our way of life?”

Andromeda looked at him sharply, her eyes flashing. “ _A few days ago_ , really, Draco?”

Draco closed his eyes, desperate to avoid her furious stare. “Yes; I said that. But in my defence, it _was_ prior to a whole other conversation which _did_ change my views somewhat.”

“Somewhat?” his aunt echoed uncertainly.

“Somewhat. Some of the things Theo pointed out have given me cause to reconsider and question some of the things I’ve taken as truths.”

“Go on,” Andromeda said, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms over her chest.

Draco sighed, massaging his temples with his fingertips. These conversations—where he was such a stark minority—had become torturous. The expression on his aunt’s face filled him with shame and discomfort. The palpable disappointment in the air made him want to choke. And this was nothing compared to how it would feel tomorrow, when Andromeda would surely be by his side as he spouted his admissions with complete honesty: raw, naked, and ugly.

How different things had been when he’d been certain that everything he knew was true.

“My latest opinions,” he murmured self-deprecatingly, “aren’t really that new. The Dark Lord is insane—something I unfortunately I learned much too late. His bloodthirst is insane, his rulings are insane, his dreams for the future are insane. Father was a fool to join him, even more fool to return to him. He’s an embarrassment to our family’s name, and because of him I was dragged into the same mess. I don’t want to bow down; not to Him; not to anyone.”

“And how about blood-purity and the Muggle world?” she queried. “You said you were concerned about Kingsley and Remus hearing those opinions.” She sighed, rubbing her eyes. “I know I’ll be hearing you answer all these questions tomorrow… but I think it would do me well to be prepared, and to give you the opportunity to make clarifications.”

Draco swallowed down another mouthful of lukewarm, overly sweet coffee, too proud to beg a Warming Charm off either of his housemates.

He hated the emotions coursing through him, hated having to _feel_. When he’d first awoken he’d somehow deceived himself into forgetting just how tainted his brain seemed to be… to everyone else, anyway. The pit in his stomach was growing worse as the day continued.

It was still hard to accept—still hard to believe—that he, the son of a prestigious family, was the one who had been raised _wrong_ , the one whose views were poisonous and ill-informed.

He was intelligent, was he not? Beyond his magical capabilities, his professors had always praised his use of critical thinking in his school assignments. How was it possible for him to be as ignorant as Theo had implied?

And why was he bothering with any of this? It was hard enough with Theo and Andromeda, who were both Slytherins who’d been raised by old pure-blood families; hard enough with Tonks, who didn’t want to give up on him.

Tomorrow would be bad, and the future could be worse. It was very possible that he’d soon be defending himself against people predisposed to disliking him, having to prove himself to people his family had openly disparaged.

Weasleys. There’d be Weasleys, and the Malfoys had feuded with them for decades.

Was putting his character and upbringing at risk of defamation truly worth it?

“Draco?” Theo prodded him lightly. “You’ve ‘disappeared’ again. Did you forget that Andromeda asked you a question?”

Draco blinked in surprise, then he glared. “I haven’t _disappeared_. I was merely taking time to consider my response.”

“Of course you were. Well, I’m making more coffee; do you want some?”

“So long as you hold the sugar this time,” he accepted, reaching across for his aunt’s mug and passing both to the sandy-haired boy.

Theo stuck out his tongue in a very juvenile manner before proceeding to the kitchen.

Finally, Draco met his aunt’s gaze. She was still watching him silently, one hand idly smoothing back her hair. There were a few strands of silver amongst the brown which he’d never noticed before.

The woman’s Muggle-born husband had been murdered only two months ago. Though she still carried vestiges of her upbringing—which had encouraged one to keep susceptibilities carefully concealed—it wasn’t hard to see the loss had weighed on her heavily. How she managed to listen to Draco’s vitriol without hexing him into oblivion was beyond him. She had her limits of course; he knew this because he’d pushed them more often than he’d liked. Despite their differences, he respected her capacity for forbearance.

“I’ve… begun to question my beliefs on magical suppression,” Draco admitted grudgingly. “Perhaps… perhaps I was wrong to believe that magic should be restricted to wizarding families and suppressed or removed from Muggle-borns and half-bloods. Perhaps their presence in our world is more a merit than a disadvantage… or maybe it could be with time.” His eyes flashed defensively. “But I don’t agree with all of it! I refuse to accept being stigmatised for wanting to marry a pure-blood, or for resenting the fact that the old ways and traditions are no longer respected and honoured as they once were. I refuse to sacrifice my _history_.”

“I don’t think anyone is asking you to do that,” Andromeda said gently.

“The Light isn’t perfect,” Theo added as he returned with fresh coffees, “and Dumbledore wasn’t perfect either. But I think you place too much blame on those of Muggle ancestry, Draco. Perhaps there is too much ignorance when it comes to wizarding culture, but I think we all hold a share of the responsibility for the fact that the traditions are fading out. We have Muggle studies at Hogwarts, but no Wizard studies to help newcomers to acclimatise and learn.”

“I think you’re right, Theo,” Andromeda conceded with an approving smile. “While I cannot say whether the exclusion of a subject has been deliberate or is simply an oversight, I do agree that it would have immeasurable benefits. What do you think, Draco?”

“It could,” he acknowledged reluctantly. “I suppose it’d be better than expecting Muggle-borns to have the initiative to find out everything on their own.”

His aunt nodded.

“So, would you want to fight for the Order if they give you the chance?” Theo asked in a sudden change of subject.

Draco looked at him with a frown. “You know how I feel about putting my parents in danger,” he said slowly.

Theo opened his mouth to reply, but Andromeda spoke first. “I think that’s a subject to revisit later,” she said. “Regardless of whether or not you want to fight, it will be up to the upper ranks of the Order to grant you permission to do so. For now, you have no wand, you’ve received no training—none of our training, that is,” she corrected, “and you’re restricted to this house where your magic is restricted.” Again, Draco remembered the fact that it _hadn’t_ been when he’d last had his wand. “Let those decisions be made in time.”

She stood up and brushed off her robes. “Come, we’ve fallen behind schedule and I have a feeling there’ll be no work occurring tomorrow. You, for one, will be exhausted, and I think a day off for all of us will do nicely.”

Before they followed her outside, Theo turned to Draco and fixed him with a small smile. “Those feelings of self-doubt won’t go away no matter how much you try to rationalise or prepare yourself,” he said. “Even if it feels wrong now, I think you’re making the right choice.” He gave Draco a small nod, then stepped out the door.

Rooted to the spot, Draco watched through the window as his friend crossed the lawn. “Thank you.” He murmured.

 

 

 

Draco felt exhausted when Andromeda roused him the next morning. His dreams had been endless labyrinths of futility, rendering him fatigued and tense, as if he hadn’t slept at all.

The night before, he’d learned that Lupin and Shacklebolt were acting as the Order’s designated commanders, which Draco had found somewhat surprising due to the former being a werewolf. Andromeda explained that, among various other roles, the two headed a small committee of decision-makers which also included Minerva McGonagall, Molly and Arthur Weasley, Aberforth Dumbledore and Elphias Doge. The two wizards intended on summarising the information procured from Draco at their next meeting, where the committee would come to a decision regarding his placement within their ranks.

Draco’s nerves were too frenzied that morning for him to have an appetite, but, under Andromeda’s no-nonsense stare, forced himself to eat a small breakfast, the toast tasting like ash in his mouth. Following this, his aunt went to wait by the Floo in her bedroom, while he and Theo remained at the dining room table, their seventh year Transfiguration textbooks spread before them. Although no one could say whether or not they’d be able to take their NEWTs, the two of them had decided to proceed through the majority of their coursework regardless. Draco highly doubted that anyone would end up taking the end of year exams, what with the war on their doorstep, but he’d decided to join Theo in an act of solidarity. He had at least managed to convince his friend that it would be wise to prioritise the topics which would benefit them most in the event of all-out war. Theo was in agreement; although they were in hiding now, it would be unwise for them to be unprepared should their situation change.

The sound of approaching footsteps drew their attention, and the boys’ amicable banter faded into silence as they lay down their quills. Draco rose reluctantly, his features an illusion of calm as he discreetly rubbed his clammy palms against his trousers.

The dark skinned Auror was the first to enter the dining room. It was the first time Draco had seen him face-to-face. The man was tall, broad and imposing, towering at about six foot seven. While Draco held a natural disinclination towards Aurors he could sense an air of competence and power about this one. It was evident that the Light had gained a formidable wizard in Kingsley Shacklebolt.

Lupin strode in next, clad in his usual shabby robes. Draco held back his sneer. No matter his personal views on werewolves or his disdain towards his old professor’s negligent fashion-sense, he knew it was imperative that he treat Remus Lupin with cordiality and respect, even if he’d been less than civil during the man’s previous visits to the house.

“Mr Malfoy.”

“Auror Shacklebolt, Professor Lupin,” Draco greeted the two wizards politely, stepping away from the table to extend a hand to each in turn. While Kingsley accepted the handshake readily enough, he noticed Lupin’s brief hesitation. Given Draco’s reputation and the poor decorum he’d displayed in the past, he supposed it was to be expected. It was ironic at the same time though, Draco thought, since _he_ was supposed to be the prejudiced one.

“Hello Theo,” Lupin smiled at the sandy-haired boy, who had remained seated, but was watching the proceedings attentively.

“Hello Remus, Kingsley.” Theo nodded at the two wizards. He glanced at Andromeda questioningly, then arranged his textbooks into a neat pile and rose. “I’ll be working in the potions lab if anyone needs me.” He gave Draco’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze before making his leave.

Andromeda moved into the kitchen to prepare coffee. “He’s getting better,” she told them with a soft sigh, her eyes following the lanky figure as he cut quickly across the grass towards the mock garden shed.

“You’ve gained his trust?” Lupin asked.

“I hope so, but I’m not sure,” she admitted.

“He wants to trust you,” Draco said quietly, his words earning a surprised glance from two older wizards. “I’m not sure if he does yet, but he wants to.”

The three Order members continued to talk about Theo, the two men taking seats at the table opposite to Draco. As Draco gathered his study equipment, he studied them from beneath his lashes, taking the time to look at them properly.

The two wizards made an odd combination. Shacklebolt looked as if he’d just stepped off the battlefield; rather than being clad in typical Auror regalia (since he no longer worked for the Ministry) he wore a set of copper combat robes complete with leather vambraces. Draco regarded the fiery colour of the robes, wondering if this was the Order’s official uniform. Meanwhile, Lupin more looked like an overworked and underpaid professor than a commander. Analysing the weathered, scar-lined face, Draco could draw parallels between Remus Lupin and Fenrir Greyback, but they were few and far between. He could see none of Greyback’s animalism in the Gryffindor, no frenetic lust for cruelty. The two werewolves seemed worlds apart.

Draco gathered his school equipment into his arms. “I’ll just take this to my room if you’ll excuse me,” he murmured.

The two wizards looked surprised for a moment before nodding, seeming to have temporarily forgotten the Slytherin’s wandless state.

Draco forced himself to walk slowly, to keep his breathing measured and even. It was ironic that he was so nervous now. He’d shared his abode with the Dark Lord himself, had attended Death Eater meetings and revels where torture and death was commonplace. There’d been many a day that he’d sorely believed to be his last. This should be nothing to him in comparison. But Veritaserum was a demon of a potion, and putting himself in a position of vulnerability terrified him.

_I want to do this. I want to save Mother. I want to protect myself, raise a family, make our name great again. I want…_

Harry. Oh Merlin, he wanted Harry too.

He wanted Harry to look at him without disgust, without shame, for him to no longer see Draco as tainted and unworthy.

He didn’t want to be thought of as a mistake.

_I can’t seem to get the damn git out of my brain, no matter how hard I try._

When he returned to the dining room, his aunt was just levitating a plate of chocolate brownies to the centre of the table. Slipping back into his seat, Draco eyed the three mugs of coffees with envy; he wished he could be downing that instead.

After taking a sip, Lupin set his mug down, turning his green eyes upon Draco. They weren’t Harry’s dazzling emerald green, Draco noted absently.

_Oh Salazar, what if I end up declaring my undying love for Harry Potter to them or something equally ridiculous?_

“Alright Mr Malfoy,” Lupin started, his voice steady and calming, “I understand your aunt has explained what will be happening today, that you’ll be taking Veritaserum and that we’ll be asking you a range of questions to gauge your suitability to serve the Order of the Phoenix. We will be seeking to gain insight into your own views and philosophies about our world’s current controversies, as well as the extent of your involvement with He Who Shall Not Be Named. This is a standard procedure we undertake with all new members in order to determine their suitability, as well as identify any limitations or concerns. Your responses shall be documented and will serve as a record of your interview and as evidence that it was undertaken appropriately and ethically. You will be provided with a copy for your own records.

“In accordance with Order guidelines, Kingsley are I are here as the two appointed examiners. You are entitled a witness of your own choosing to oversee the proceedings. Do you consent to Andromeda Tonks filling this position?”

Draco glanced sideways at her. “I do.” She sent him a quick smile.

“Very good. Do you have any further questions?”

“What happens if my answers do not meet your satisfaction?”

It was Shacklebolt who responded. “If you have not provided sufficient information to a question, we may repeat it with a slight variation in wording or rephrase it to be more specific.”

“And what if the things I say are deemed… unfavourable?”

“If the committee concludes that your responses indicate unsuitability, your current status will remain. You will have the chance to seek clarification on this matter if it eventuates.

“Today’s documentation cannot be submitted as evidence for any criminal acts you may admit to—whether these concern yourself or another. As Veritaserum has a range of limitations, any evidence generated from related interrogations are considered invalid by the Wizengamot. Our primary use for it today is to gain insight into what you _believe_ to be true. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any other questions?” Lupin asked.

“No.”

“Very well,” said Lupin. “Before we begin, have you been questioned under the influence of Veritaserum before?”

He nodded. “A couple of times.”

“Under what circumstances?”

“Before the Da—You-Know-Who initiated me; probably to find out if I was hiding any valuable information from him. The same occurred at the end of sixth year, after what happened with—with Dumbledore.” He lowered his eyes. “And a few times in childhood… My father wanted to show me the cost of telling him half-truths.”

The two men exchanged a glance. It was fortunate that they made no comment, otherwise Draco would have found himself in the awkward and incongruous position of defending the choices of a man he no longer respected.

Shacklebolt stood up and moved around the table. “Alright, Mr Malfoy. You’ll be receiving three drops of Veritaserum to the tongue. After you’ve been allowed a minute to adjust, we will ask a few primary questions to make sure the potion has taken effect, and then the formal questioning will begin. Open your mouth, if you please.”

Draco complied, heart racing and body stiffening as the Auror leaned forward to administer the potion.

Returning to his side of the table, Shacklebolt settled himself in his chair and for a minute everyone waited quietly, Lupin keeping track of the time using a Tempus Charm. When the werewolf cancelled the charm and picked up his Quick-Quotes quill, Shacklebolt leaned forward and the questioning began.

“What is your name?”

“Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

“What is your date of birth?”

“June 5th, 1980.”

“Good. Now, we’ll start off by asking some questions about your childhood…”

 

 

 

“Well, that went well,” Draco remarked drily to Andromeda and Theo as the three settled down at the table with fresh mugs of tea.

The questioning had lasted two hours, and although he’d complained about it after Shacklebolt and Lupin had left, Draco knew he was lucky it hadn’t taken longer. In other circumstances, he might have been submitted to a more meticulous and invasive interrogation.

When Lupin and Shacklebolt were satisfied, the two wizards had allowed Draco the opportunity to speak. Draco had spent the majority of this time attempting negotiations, the Slytherin gritting his teeth in infuriation as he treaded the fine line between being assertive and outspoken.

Eventually, the group had established a number of mutual understandings for if he was accepted into the Order. The word ‘trust’ had been carefully avoided, but the insinuations were there. In time, Draco would be granted use of his wand for training purposes. The wand would remain in Andromeda’s care outside of training sessions, but the dampening on the wards would be lifted, enabling him to work on his wandless abilities more successfully. If his progress was positive, he would possibly be granted regular use of his wand. In the event of battle, Draco’s role would depend on the length of time he had served within the Order, as well as how his particular abilities aligned with their needs. If involved in a battle or another combative scenario, he would not be expected to cause harm to his parents, but nor would he be permitted to aid them. The Order would attempt to disarm and apprehend the Malfoys, but would not spare their lives if directly attacked. In exchange for his service, the Order would advocate for him in the event of his trial after the war.

He wasn’t entirely pleased about the proposed arrangement, but he knew the outcome of his negotiations could have been a lot worse.

“How are you feeling?” Andromeda asked.

“Ready for a nap,” Draco remarked dully, picking at one of the brownies he’d been eyeing off all morning. “Were they as thorough when they questioned you, Theo?”

Theo shook his head. “When I was questioned, it became obvious pretty quickly that I only had limited information about my father’s affairs and didn’t share his sentiments regarding You-Know-Who or Muggles. I admitted under Veritaserum that I genuinely wanted to fight alongside the Order. It was a pretty gruelling experience all the same. I fell asleep almost immediately after I got back to my dorm.”

Draco frowned. “You were questioned at Hogwarts?”

Andromeda’s brow knit in confusion. “I didn’t know that either. How did they manage to question you at the school?”

“Professor McGonagall was the one to administer the Veritaserum and question me,” Theo explained. “Did you know she worked for the MLE before she became a professor?”

The woman shook her head. “She taught me Transfiguration professor at Hogwarts but I didn’t get to know her that well; Horace Slughorn was my Head of House.” All three rolled their eyes at the mention of the bumptious potions professor.

“Well, I for one am hardly surprised about her background,” Draco remarked. “McGonagall can be downright terrifying when she wants to be. I could see her sitting through an interrogation with Bellatrix without even cringing.”

Theo shrugged. “I’ve always liked McGonagall well enough, though I’m glad we had Severus as our Head of House.”

His eyes widened as he realised what he’d said.

“It’s alright, Theo,” Andromeda said mildly. “You may not feel the same way about him now as you did before, but it doesn’t mean your old feelings are suddenly invalid or shameful. You don’t need to feel guilty.”

“Okay,” the sandy-haired boy said hesitantly.

In the corner of his vision, Draco noticed Theo trying to catch his attention and resolutely ignored the blue-eyed gaze.

Draco didn’t want to talk about Severus and how the Potions Master had spent years fooling so many. He wasn’t like the rest of them; he’d served the Dark Lord after all, and even before then his father had never lied about Severus being a Death Eater. His godfather had always tried to protect him, whether Draco had wanted him to or not. In Draco’s mind _he_ was one who was a traitor, and Severus was yet another person he was turning his back on in his crossing over to the Light.

He couldn’t tell them that, however. They wouldn’t understand.

Draco pushed himself to his feet before the conversation could continue. “Alright; I’ve had enough of trying to stay awake. I’m going to bed.”

“I’ll wake you for dinner if you’re still asleep,” Andromeda returned.

He nodded then made his way back to his bedroom, his brain foggy and body heavy. After drawing the curtains closed and casting the room into darkness, Draco pulled off his clothes and crawled beneath the covers. He curled onto his side, letting out a soft sigh of contentment as the cool sheets cradled his skin, then allowed his eyes to close.

_“Do you wish for harm to come to Harry Potter?”_

_“No. I wish for Harry Potter to live through the war and defeat the Dark Lord.”_

_Shacklebolt nodded. “Do you still think of Harry Potter as your enemy?”_

_Draco rolled his eyes slightly; the Auror had already asked him a similarly worded version of this question. His voice droned out his response. “No. Harry is not my enemy; we made a truce. It is my hope that we become friends, and that in time, maybe more…” Draco let out a hiss of frustration, glaring down at his white-knuckled hands which tightly gripped the edge of the table._

_A confused glance was exchanged between the two older wizards, then Lupin leaned forward, diverting from their script as he spoke for the first time. “Are you… interested in being romantically involved with Harry Potter?”_

_Eyes squeezed shut, teeth grit and face burning in humiliation; he couldn’t stop the truth from coming out._

_“Yes.”_

 

 

 

Draco had started following _Potterwatch_ after Harry had left. He’d quickly become a devout listener. The program became an obsession of his to such an extent that sometimes he’d wake in the middle of the night in a panic, worried he’d slept through a broadcast.

He’d learned that River and Rapier were the main presenters. River’s tendency to insist that Rapier’s true codename was ‘Rodent’ had been enough for Draco to label him a Weasley. As he listened to more content, he became confident that Rapier was one of the twin Weasleys in particular, if not both twins using the one codename.

River’s voice had been frustratingly familiar, but it had taken awhile for Draco to place its owner. After a few listens, he finally recognised him as one of the students who had regularly commentated during the school’s Quidditch matches. A Gryffindor two or three years his senior who’d been predictably biased during face-offs against Slytherin; Jordan or Jacobs or something along those lines.

There were guests on _Potterwatch_ from time to time, their true names also disguised by codenames starting with the letter ‘R’. The most frequent visitors were Romulus and Royal. After having spoken to both Kingsley and Lupin at length Draco could easily identify their voices over the airwaves, though he fancied that he would have been able to have easily decoded their aliases regardless.

Draco often felt like an outsider as he listened, as if he was eavesdropping on a conversation not meant for his ears. He supposed it was true, in a way; no matter his change in allegiance, Draco _was_ an outsider to them; he’d been one the moment the Sorting Hat had touched his head and proclaimed him a Slytherin. To the likes of those such as the Weasleys, he’d been cast as Other the moment he’d emerged from Narcissa Malfoy’s womb.

It was awkward and uncomfortable to listen to them spread news and rejoice over the successes of people he’d been raised to dislike, people he’d scorned and taunted and mocked. The passwords left at the end of each episode were often names of people who Draco had directly victimised in the past, or who had been fervently disparaged by his father.

Sometimes there’d been motives behind his cruel treatment of his peers—retaliation, domination, deterrence, a desire to please his father, for instance. Feelings of insecurity had played a role at times too, though he hated to admit.

But often, Draco had been cruel because it had been gratifying, because it had made him feel _good_. Back when he was younger, he’d enjoyed the role of tormentor. He’d sought out opportunities to hurt others and make his superiority clear. He’d relished the rush that came with knowing he knew how to seek out weakness, that he had the cunning to cause others to feel hurt and shame.

Everything had been just fine until he’d been forced to graduate beyond barbs and taunts. Being a schoolyard bully had been a stepping stone towards becoming a Death Eater in training. When participation in violence and torture and death had moved beyond a concept to a tangible reality, his perspective had begun to change.

Draco didn’t really know who or what he was anymore, and he wasn’t entirely certain what he wanted to become, either. All he knew was it was hard to listen to recounts about these people, _Harry’s_ people. It was hard to know that, while he may not have caused the problems they were facing, he certainly hadn’t helped.

What would River and Rapier think if they knew that Draco Malfoy was one of their faithful listeners? What would they say if they knew he’d asked Tonks to transfigure him not one but two alarm clocks so that he didn’t miss a broadcast?

Andromeda and Theo would listen with him, and Tonks would too if she was there. However, towards the end of the program, during the portion where the deaths were announced, he’d often find himself sitting alone. Hearing the list of names had become too difficult for the others, so Draco had taken it upon himself to bear the burden for them. Parchment before him and quill in hand, he would write down each name listed, even if they were Muggles. Many of them he didn’t recognise, but he recorded them all the same in case they meant something to Andromeda, Tonks or Theo.

The painfully stretched out minutes prior to each broadcast were torture. He’d try to stay calm, to ignore the tightness in his chest, the thundering of his heart, the dryness of his throat. Sometimes he’d bite his lip as he listened to River, Rapier and co.’s banter prior to the death list, the taste of blood welling in his mouth.

In the end, his shoulders would slump with relief, his body vibrating in the knowledge that his luck still hadn’t run out.

His parents’ names were never mentioned.

And wherever Harry was, he was alive.

 

 

 

It was early March, four days after Draco had undergone questioning, when Theo sauntered into Draco’s room, his smile a disconcerting stretch of cheerfulness.

Draco placed his book aside. “Why do you look so happy?” he asked warily.

Theo’s grin widened. “Neville’s coming to visit this afternoon. It was hard to organise for obvious reasons, but he’s finally able to.”

Draco closed his eyes and groaned in anguish. “You’re joking, right?”

“Nope!”

Draco cringed; he could practically hear his friend smiling. “You want me to be nice to him, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

Draco opened his eyes to glare at his beaming friend.  “Arsehole,” he grumbled.

Theo flapped a hand at Draco, gesturing for him to move over, then lay down after Draco had shuffled across the bed to accommodate him. The two of them stared up at the ceiling. “You guys are supposed to be allies now, you prat, so I shouldn’t even have to tell you to play nice. Besides, it’s important to me too; he’s my…”

“ _Yes_?” Draco asked, eyebrows raised as he turned to look at his friend. He remembered what Theo’s note had said but he’d kept it to himself ever since.

“My friend,” Theo finished in a firm yet altogether unconvincing tone. “Neville’s my friend, as are you, and so, I’d appreciate it if you tried to get along. Just be nice to him, Draco. For me.”

“Malfoys are never nice,” he insisted. “Not unless it’s in their best interests.”

“Well then, you should have no problem,” Theo countered. “I personally think it’s time you stopped concerning yourself with what Malfoys are and aren’t supposed to be like. Stop living up to Lucius’s expectations and start to live up to your own.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I’ll save that journey of self-discovery for after the war, if you don’t mind.” He sighed. “ _Fine._ Since he’s your… _friend—”_ he noted with amusement that Theo’s firm expression was belied by the blush staining his cheeks, “—I’ll be polite. I’m not going to pander to him though.”

“And I wouldn’t expect you to,” Theo responded smugly.

“I hope you’ve lectured him too,” Draco commented. “I’m guessing Longbottom isn’t going to be particularly excited to see me.”

Memories of a young round-faced Gryffindor, nervous and clumsy, began to enter his mind. He didn’t understand what Theo could see in a boy like that. He hoped his friend hadn’t simply fallen for the first person to show him kindness in years.

“He’s somewhat sceptical,” Theo admitted, “but can you blame him? You’ve never been a particularly compassionate person, and especially not to him. Plus…” his eyes flicked in the direction of Draco’s left arm, where his Dark Mark was covered by the sleeve of his shirt.

Draco harrumphed. “If people are pathetic, I’ll treat them so.”

Theo sighed, sitting up once more. “You really are a stubborn bastard sometimes; you know that?” he said wearily. “If you don’t start to work on it, things will only get harder for you.” He launched off the bed and headed for the door. “He’ll be here for lunch!” he called over his shoulder before departing.

Draco buried his face in the pillow and groaned.

 

 

 

It was with reluctance that Draco moved to the kitchen to prepare lunch. As of late the three Slytherins had begun sharing the responsibility of cooking rather than leaving the job to Andromeda. She still stepped in regularly to help her two younger charges, however; Theo and Draco were both accustomed to being cooked for, and had little in the way of experience. Having to incorporate Muggle appliances was a further source of difficulty.

“I still don’t know why you can’t just have house elves like everyone else,” Draco grumbled as he reduced the lamb curry on the stove to a simmer, peering intently at the flame before setting the lid on the pot.

Andromeda chuckled. “Not every family has house elves, Draco.”

“That’s typically because they can’t afford it,” he said. “I’m sure _you_ can afford it.”

“And _I’m_ sure your parents raised you with more manners than you’re currently displaying,” Andromeda chided.

“Theo suggested I stop trying to base my choices on Malfoy ideals,” Draco teased back. “Who am I to argue with him?”

Andromeda rolled her eyes good naturedly. “Who, indeed. Unfortunately, Draco, you’ll just have to make do with the fact that there are no elves at this house, there’s never been any elves, and there likely never will be any elves.”

“Just me and Theo.”

His aunt winked. “Exactly.”

Ten minutes later a cheery voice called, “Hellooo!” from the hall.

Tonks swept into the room clad in her Auror robes, her hair a frizzy, windswept mess of silvery locks.

“Did something die on your head?” Draco asked drily.

Tonks stopped in her tracks and poked her tongue at him playfully. “Shut up!” She ruffled her hands vigorously through the mop, the hair smoothing and settling around her shoulders in silken waves. “Well?” she demanded. “Do I meet your illustrious standards now?”

“Not a chance.”

Entering the kitchen, Tonks swatted him playfully before peering into the pot. “My, my, look at this! Get a load of Mis-ter Muggle! Seriously though, this smells good.” She turned to grin devilishly at her mother. “Neville and Theo are just catching up. They’ll be along in a minute, I’m sure.”

Draco sighed quietly under his breath, moving to set bowls and cutlery out on the table in an attempt to hide his lack of enthusiasm from the two Tonks women.

The curry, rice and naan bread were all waiting on the table by the time Theo and Longbottom made it to the dining room. Draco noticed their close proximity as they stepped out of the hall, the noticeable ease between them.

It didn’t matter how vehemently Theo tried to deny it; it was evident the two of them were more than just friends.

Longbottom’s grin faded at the sight of Draco, his lips forming a thin line of disapproval. After a beat, the Gryffindor blinked rapidly and looked away, turning his attention to Andromeda and Tonks.

Draco stared at Longbottom as his smile reappeared as he greeted Andromeda, trying to reconcile him with the boy he’d pictured in his mind. The Gryffindor’s hair was darker than his memory, light brown now instead of blonde, and his lightly stubbled face had outgrown the round boyishness of his more youthful self. The wizard was quite tall—his days of Crabbe and Goyle looming over him were evidently at an end—and his form-fitting Muggle t-shirt revealed broad shoulders and a surprisingly muscular build.

When exactly had Longbottom grown from a boy into a man? When had Draco last paid proper attention to him? He remembered Longbottom causing quite a bit of grief in the first few months back at Hogwarts, but he couldn’t picture the specifics.

From time to time, the Carrows had requested Draco help supervise detentions. Had Longbottom ever been there at the same time? Had Draco ever cast the Cruciatus Curse on him? At the beginning of the term, Draco had spent most of those detention sessions trying to maintain his composure. He had struggled to perform the Cruciatus Curse correctly and the Carrows had needed to place him under the Imperius which made his memory hazier. Being forced to cast the curse in this state and then later receiving it as punishment for failing had been a good enough incentive for Draco to improve. At the very least, he knew he hadn’t cast the curse on Longbottom unaided.

Longbottom wouldn’t give a shit what his reasons were for the things he’d done over the last year, wouldn’t care that Draco had hardly had a choice. From what he’d experienced, everything with Gryffindors was either black or white. In their eyes there was good, and then there was evil. Lions didn’t see the world in shades of grey, couldn’t perceive of an in-between.

 _But Harry…_ A small voice inside his mind reminded him. _Harry’s not like that._

 _Perhaps it’s not only Gryffindors who are limited by their assumptions_ , he realised.

“You know Draco, of course,” he heard Theo state awkwardly.

Draco’s head snapped up. “Hello, Longbottom,” he greeted him with an incline of his head.

The Gryffindor’s eyes returned to his, cold and untrusting. Longbottom nodded stiffly. “Malfoy.”

Draco noticed Theo looking at him strangely; it was obvious that he’d missed all the niceties exchanged with Andromeda and Tonks, that he’d disappeared into himself once again.

He cleared his throat. “Lunch is ready,” he announced unnecessarily before pointing to the dishes in turn. “Lamb curry, rice, naan bread.”

Theo approached the table and peered at the dishes. “Well done,” he commended appreciatively.

“You cooked this yourself, Malfoy?” Longbottom asked as he stopped alongside Theo, eyeing the food with hesitance.

Before Draco could snidely inform the Gryffindor that he’d hardly poisoned the food, Tonks answered for him.

“Our little pure-bloods have been learning how to do things the Muggle way,” she told Longbottom brightly. “Draco’s a natural.”

“…I see.”

As the five of them sat down, Draco leant towards his cousin. “I highly doubt Longbottom is interested in hearing about how you’re trying to turn me into a well-rounded do-gooder,” he muttered to her; she shrugged good-naturedly.

Longbottom scooped rice into his bowl, then grabbed Theo’s bowl and did the same. “I’ve not cooked much myself; Gran has a couple of house elves that take care of most of it for us.”

Draco raised his head to stare pointedly at Andromeda.

“The Hogwarts elves are still feeding you, I hope,” Andromeda asked the brunette, her voice tinged with concern.

Longbottom gave her a reassuring smile. “There were a few challenges in the beginning, but it’s all fine now.”

“All fine?” Draco spoke up. “What are you—”

“Not now, Draco,” Theo interrupted.

Longbottom waved a hand at the sandy-haired Slytherin. “It’s okay, Theo.” He turned to Draco. “I’m… in hiding myself, I guess you could say.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed as he glanced between Theo—who was looking increasingly anxious—and Longbottom, who seemed to be attempting to reassure the others.

He realised that he was the only one who appeared confused; everyone else seemed to know what was going on with Longbottom. Furthermore, no one seemed to want him to find out.

“You’re still at Hogwarts, aren’t you?” Draco asked suddenly. “When you said you were in hiding, at first I thought you meant at a safe-house like this one. But you’re still at Hogwarts.”

Longbottom looked mildly surprised but didn’t respond.

Draco turned to the others at the table. “Now, I might just be making guesses, but I get the feeling that all of you know exactly where Longbottom’s staying. Am I right?

“Yes—we do,” Tonks admitted after a pause. “And yes, you were correct; Neville’s still at Hogwarts.”

“I’m in the Order now, aren’t I?” Draco fumed. “I don’t understand why I can’t be told these things.”

“They’re meeting tonight to discuss your…” Andromeda paused, trying to think of the right word. “Interview.”

“So… what, I need to receive my official Order of the Phoenix t-shirt first?”

There was no answer.

He glared at them all. “Am I not considered trustworthy yet?”

“No,” Theo’s soft voice finally rose from the silence. “You’re not.”

Draco turned his head sharply. His friend met his gaze, pale cerulean eyes softened with regret. He waited for someone else to speak up, but the others stayed quiet.

With a slow exhale and measured precision, Draco lay his cutlery alongside his half-empty bowl. “Please excuse me,” he murmured.

Four silent people watched him make his way from the room.


	13. Fidelitas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the longer than intended absence between chapters - I had a bit of a break due to a combination of busyness at work and a pinch of writer's block... however I'm about to have 2 weeks of holidays and I am intending on being a writing machine over that time!
> 
> Thank you for the comments and constructive criticisms I've been receiving :) they're highly appreciated and clicking into my inbox is becoming a little less scary!  
> As I've been writing, I've been devouring fics as well... which have led me to having many of those 'damn, I didn't even think about THAT' moments. Please [kindly] let me know if I've majorly overlooked anything because I've had a few realisations months after publishing chapters, meaning it's been a bit late to do much about it. I'm at 109000 words in my drafting and I started this story almost 7 months ago, so some things are bound to have slipped my mind :)

_“Am I not considered trustworthy yet?”_

_“No.” Theo’s soft voice rose from the silence. “You’re not.”_

Despite the rage crackling within him, Draco was still rational enough to recognise that their reasons for continuing to hold him at arm’s length weren’t exactly unfounded. Rationality, however, wasn’t enough to suppress the bitterness that was threatening to swallow him whole.

If such a comment had come from Longbottom, Draco imagined he could have successfully tucked his vehemence behind his usual cool exterior. To hear such a thing from him would have been wholly unsurprising; the demi-Squib had absolutely no reason to trust him, after all. In the end, however, it had been Theo who had uttered those three simple words which carried so much weight, and that they came from him was what hurt the most. Theo, who was supposed to be his friend, who was supposed to understand better than anyone else.

Theo had answered his question with frank honesty – and in front of Longbottom too, something which should _never_ have happened – and no one had said a word in Draco’s defence or deviated the conversation, their silence bearing wordless agreement.

_Fuck those perfidious sods. Fuck them all._

These were the people who had sat down and prodded at him time and time again, who’d urged him to see the world through a different lens and carve out a better future for himself. They had all seemed so desperate for him to change, to slot more comfortably into their definition of ‘good’ and redeem his regressive ways. But at the same time, they continued to keep him at a distance, to feed him titbits of information only as they pleased. They were hardly championing their cause when they had so little to offer.

In some ways, this new situation of his almost felt like being a part of the Death Eaters all over again.

Draco knew he was far short of perfect, still nowhere near fitting the Order’s idealistic ‘Light Wizard’ mould. But in his mind he’d at least been making an effort and that should have counted for _something_. Perhaps he was still a judgmental and arrogant bastard – he was hardly going to deny _that_ – but he _was_ attempting to critically revisit some of his former assumptions. For example, although he _had_ wanted to wipe his hand after shaking Lupin’s, he hadn’t done so in the end, had he? Furthermore, he was willing to hope that with similar exposure to the beast, such urges would fade.

A little bit of acknowledgement wouldn’t have gone astray.

Perhaps he hadn’t entirely shaken off his prejudices, but was the lingering presence of his biases really synonymous with his potential for trustworthiness? He’d been living under Andromeda’s roof for almost three months without incident. In his view, he’d accepted his not-quite imprisonment and his pathetically magicless position with better grace than the situation warranted. This was no mean feat when his mother could be dead for all he knew. He’d learned how to use their bloody stupid Muggle appliances, had read a good chunk of Tonks’ Muggle novels - though he'd given up on the science fiction ones - asking respectful questions when he needed clarification of their ludicrous concepts. He’d helped with the gardening and brewing and cooking, taking up his fair share with hardly a complaint despite being accustomed to house elves doing such work for him. He’d become a Potterwatch devotee, had dutifully written down names and facts for the others, had held his tongue when he’d been indirectly insulted by the Weasley twins and their commentator friend. He’d been honest with Andromeda, Tonks and Theo about his more controversial ideologies, had indulged them by partaking in their debates, had willingly been questioned under Veritaserum.

Had they all forgotten that, just a few weeks earlier, Draco had _saved Harry Potter’s life_ , for Salazar’s sake? If that wasn’t enough to deem him trustworthy, then what would?

He’d also touched Harry Potter’s cock, but that was another matter altogether.

Most considerably, practically all of those things had happened _before_ Draco had formally renounced his loyalty to the Dark Lord. But apparently, none of this mattered to his keepers; nothing he had done seemed to be proof enough.

Feeling rather exhausted, Draco dropped down onto his bed, curling up atop the covers. He lay his head down on his pillow and squeezed his eyes shut. It wasn’t long before he drifted off to sleep.

Despite having spent almost an hour brooding, that Draco trusted barely anyone himself never registered in his mind.

 

 

 

_*_

_“In what capacity do you wish to join the Order of the Phoenix?”_

_“I want to contribute to the ending of this war.”_

_“And do you possess any particular skills that could be of asset to the Order’s cause?”_

_Taking a deep breath, Draco’s response was pulled from him. “I am an adept in the art of Potioneering. I have been trained in Occlumency and am a novice Legilimens. I am a skilled practitioner of Light, Neutral and Dark magic, particularly in the areas of Charms, Transfiguration, Arithmancy and Duelling. I am quick to learn new magical repertoire in regard to practical and theoretical acquisition. I grew up at Malfoy Manor – the Dark Lord’s primary stronghold – and can pass through the property’s blood wards. I know many Death Eaters personally and can attest to their particular strengths and weaknesses, as well as reveal their identities.”_

_The words he was spurting made him feel dirty; if he’d had the freedom of restraint, he would never have tried to sell himself so disgracefully. While his fellow Slytherins had always made light of his egotism, he’d at least had some modicum of refinement. Eventually, his spiel ceased and he waited in rigid humiliation, eyes lowered._

_Shacklebolt allowed for Lupin’s quill to still before he voiced the next question._

_“You’ve willingly admitted to taking the Mark of your own volition, serving He Who Must Not Be Named until your mother sent you to your aunt. With such a recent history of servitude to the Dark, do you believe you have the capacity to be loyal to the Order of the Phoenix?”_

_“Perhaps.”_

_“Perhaps?” Lupin echoed, as he and Shacklebolt exchanged a glance._

_Brow furrowing, Shacklebolt reformulated his question. “Under what capacity would your loyalties to the Order of the Phoenix be threatened?”_

_“If my mother’s life was put in danger, I would not be able to stand by and allow harm to come to her-”_

_“What of your father?” Shacklebolt interrupted. “What of Lucius Malfoy?”_

_Draco raised his head to glower at the Auror. “Lucius Malfoy has made his decisions clear. It is him who has to live with them now. I shan’t be making sacrifices for him.”_

_Beside Draco, Andromeda slowly let out the breath she’d been holding, and released her tight grip on the table’s edge._

*

 

 

 

A tentative knock sounded on his bedroom door. Draco, whose lifelong tendencies as a light sleeper had been further exacerbated by the Dark Lord’s inhabitation of Malfoy Manor, stirred from his nap instantly.

His eyes blinked open and he stared up at the ceiling, waiting, listening.

The knock sounded again.

Draco, familiar with the mannerisms of Andromeda, Tonks and Theo, was almost certain it was Longbottom on the other side of the door. Why the Gryffindor was paying _him_ a visit, however, was beyond him. He frowned at the door a moment then turned away, his pride outweighing his curiosity.

There was a third knock – a little louder and more insistent this time.

After what had happened at lunch, Draco was still alight with frustration and humiliation. While he felt a little calmer now, the feelings hadn’t abated. For that reason, he was perfectly content to continue ignoring Longbottom – as well as anyone else who came to his door. But then he remembered that he was supposed to be ‘playing nice’ for Theo’s sake.

_Not that Theo deserves anything, the prat_ , he thought tetchily.

With an aggravated growl, Draco rolled onto his back and crossed his arms behind his head. “Come in,” he called sharply.

The door opened slowly to reveal the brunette, who lingered hesitantly in the doorway as he stared down at Draco’s inelegantly sprawled figure on the bed.

“Uh…”

“Don’t just hover there, Longbottom,” Draco snapped. “Either come inside, or stay out, but shut the door.”

Slightly flustered by the rebuke, Longbottom stepped quickly into the room, pushing the door closed behind him. Draco watched without a word as the Gryffindor located the sole chair and, with a flick of his wand, manoeuvred it to his bedside.

“Well, this is quite the surprise,” Draco remarked after the other boy had sat down, his voice tempered into a bored drawl. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Longbottom?”

“You left.”

“How observant of you to have noticed,” Draco drawled. “What do you want?”

“You wanted an explanation, didn’t you, Malfoy?” Longbottom responded coolly. “Seemed like you did, back at lunch. I’ve come here to offer you one.”

Draco raised his eyebrows as he sat up. “And so the surprises continue. Why would you want to do something like that?”

“I know all about how you’ve pledged to join the Order, Malfoy. I never would have believed it, had I not been told first hand.” Longbottom stared at him a moment, then scratched his head. “Much as the rest of them are hoping your wishes are genuine, I can’t say _I’m_ quite as optimistic as they are. Perhaps our families don't frequent the same circles, but I do know that Dromeda was disinherited by the Blacks a long time ago. She and Tonks hardly know you. But me, I _know_ what you’re like and the ghastly things you’ve done. I have _seven years_ of memories, Malfoy. Until now, you’ve always been on the other side, and you’ve made that pretty damn clear. Even if you’re crossing over now, you’re an outsider.”

As he listened, Draco had to fight to keep a neutral expression, to hide how surprised he was by the Gryffindor's audacity.

_This_ really _is not the Longbottom I remember at all._

“If those are your sentiments, then why bother coming here?” Draco responded coldly.

Longbottom didn’t answer right away. Finally, he began to speak, his tone laced with distrust. “It doesn’t make sense that you’d want to be a part of the Order, not after all this time. You still think of me as a blood-traitor, do you not? You probably haven’t removed ‘Mudblood’ from your vocabulary either. You don’t see the world the same way as us. You also don’t _know_ any of us. So… beyond your own self-serving motivations, why this, and why now?”

“If you’re as connected as you say you are, Longbottom, go read the transcript – it’s all there.”

Longbottom didn’t acknowledge his comment as he continued. “You’ve been on the other side all this time, cozied up with the Carrows… Snape, the lot of them. Do you have any _idea_ how the rest of us have been faring because you’ve spent all this time working against the cause you’re now trying to join?”

There it was. That was the real reason why Longbottom had come. He wanted to make sure Draco knew exactly how bad his past choices had been, wanted him to know that his past couldn't simply be erased. Longbottom wanted retribution for his suffering, for all their suffering, and Draco was to serve as his scapegoat.

_Consider this practice; the first of the many face-offs to come,_ Draco told himself scornfully, for Longbottom wouldn’t be the last person to take him to task for his mistakes.

The Gryffindor thrust a hand in the direction of the door. “The others didn’t want me to come and talk to you yet. They wanted to wait until the Order had made their decision about what to do with you.”

“And yet here you are.”

“Here I am,” the other boy echoed wryly.

Draco narrowed his eyes, scrutinising Longbottom’s expression. “Didn’t they try to stop you?”

“All three of them made their objections pretty clear.” Longbottom shrugged in near nonchalance. “But as I told them – I figure I have enough sense not to tell you anything that might compromise our situation.”

“I see. And what exactly do you want me to become more familiar with, Longbottom?”

Longbottom’s eyes met his, hard and knowing. “I’ve seen what you can do with that wand of yours, Malfoy. I’ve seen you put eleven year-olds under the Cruciatus and barely bat an eyelid. At the end of those… _sessions_ ,” he spat, “you’d waltz out of the room behind the Carrows with hardly a backward glance. You never spent the night by their bedsides, never had to comfort crying first and second years too anxious to sleep. Never had to console children whose entire families had been _murdered_.”

“I haven’t murdered anyone.” Draco said icily.

“Not for lack of trying,” Longbottom retorted.

“I had little choice in the matter. Everything I’ve done has been to survive.”

_And some of it was because I thought it was right._

Longbottom’s nostrils flared. “I don’t want to hear your excuses, Malfoy. Point is, you haven’t had to deal with the things we’ve had to. You have _no_ idea what it's been like for us! Even now, you’re sheltered, nice and safe while other people are out there suffering undeservingly. But you know what? I don’t think you can truly become a part of anything until you realise exactly what your choices have contributed to. You deserve to have that weighing on your conscience; do you understand?”

Draco sighed. “I understand very well, Longbottom. I understand you want me to suffer. Merlin, at least half of wizarding Britain would likely be happy to see my head on a stake; such a shame it’s gone out of practice!”

Longbottom glowered and opened his mouth to retort, but Draco jumped in before he could.

“Let me ask you what you would have done if you were me. What would you have done if the Dark Lord had ordered you to kill Dumbledore?”

“I would have refused,” Longbottom told him haughtily.

“Even in the face of death?”

“I’m not a coward.”

“And what if he threatened to kill your family if you refused him? What then?”

“I would have asked for help,” Longbottom growled. “You never did.”

“Ah yes,” Draco drawled, “and who would I have turned to? My Head of House, Dumbledore’s killer himself, who’s now serving as the Dark Lord’s right hand man? My father, who at the time was rotting away in Azkaban? My friends, who were either spying for their parents or trying to keep their heads down? How about my other professors and peers, who deemed my friends and I Junior Death Eaters the moment we set foot on Hogwarts’ grounds? How exactly would you have reacted if I’d come to you, or to bloody sodding Potter?” He ground his teeth. “Did you know Dumbledore knew exactly what I’d been up to last year? When his time came, he wasn’t the least surprised to see me pointing my wand at him! He could have intervened long before then, could have helped somehow, _but he didn’t_. Tell me, Longbottom – _tell me!_ – if you had been me, what would you have done?”

Longbottom’s eyes were wide and disbelieving, his lips slightly parted as he stared.

Draco nodded. “Exactly,” he whispered, and a silence fell between them.

After a few minutes, the Gryffindor spoke. “You can’t just act as if you’re innocent in all of this,” Longbottom said quietly, "I have seven years of personal experience which can attest to that."

“Innocent?” Draco let out a cold bark of laughter. “I assure you, I’ve never been innocent in _anything_ , Longbottom. I was excited in the beginning; with so many Death Eaters out of commission due to the Department of Mysteries saga, I was initiated years earlier than I had ever expected. I was desperate to prove just how well I could fill the role. Turns out I was well and truly clueless and out of my depth, but no one could ever argue that I was ignorant.”

Longbottom looked disturbed by the admission. Then he said, "It still took a long time for you to change your mind."

Draco let out a small snort. "Yeah, maybe. I was more-or-less raised to become a Death Eater... but turns out there's certain things you can't teach."

Longbottom looked as if he was about to question that statement, but instead he hummed and looked away, playing with a frayed hole in the knee of his jeans instead. Draco continued to stare at the brunette. It was rather surreal, the two of them alone and having what could almost pass for a conversation. He would never have conceived of such a thing. In the past, Longbottom had been afraid of Draco, had always been an easy target. Draco saw no fear in him now.

Longbottom looked up and frowned, unnerved. “What?”

Eventually, Draco said, “You’re… different than I remember, Longbottom. Finally decide to start living up to the Gryffindor reputation, did you?”

At Draco’s words, Longbottom’s mouth curled in a brief, sad smile. “I dunno about that, Malfoy,” he replied wearily. “Suffice it to say… it’s been a long year.”

Draco pursed his lips, resisting the urge to pull his eyes away. “Yes,” he agreed quietly.

Longbottom gazed at him, his expression intent, searching. Finally, he exhaled. “There’s a room at Hogwarts. It’s hidden away but can be summoned at will and changed to meet your particular needs.”

“The Room of Requirement – I know of it,” Draco acknowledged. “Theo said he went looking for you and found you there.”

Longbottom’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. “He did?”

“Indeed. However, he didn’t mention you’d turned it into your personal quarters.”

Longbottom’s lips twitched. “That’s because he didn’t know it. Turns out the Room is a rather intricate entity. Part of the beauty of it is that one can create rooms within rooms. When Theo entered the Room, all he saw was me, sitting in a chair in a large empty space.”

Draco nodded, somewhat impressed. “So you created a labyrinth of sorts, helping you to stay hidden even if the Room is accessed by someone else?”

“Yes… and it’s helped more than just me, in fact. I’m not the only one who’s caused a little too much trouble this year.”

“Who else?” Draco asked, trying to recall names of various students who had caused the Carrow siblings grief.

“That part’s confidential.” Longbottom replied firmly, his jaw set in determination.

The Slytherin shrugged. “Fair.”

Head cocking slightly, the other boy regarded him. “I’ve become rather close with Theo over the last few months, you know? And that means I’ve learned a little bit about you in that time, too. Theo wants your friendship – not something I can say I understand, because in my experience you’ve always been a downright nasty git.”

Draco bit back the urge to retort.

Longbottom sighed, pressing his knuckles against his eyes tiredly. “But… obviously you’ve got some kind of merit,” the Gryffindor conceded with reluctance. “Now’s the time to prove you’re not a lost cause, hmm?”

Draco crooked an eyebrow. “Perhaps.”

Another silence.

“I didn’t want to,” Draco admitted suddenly.

“Didn’t want to…?”

“At first, the Carrows had to put me under the Imperius because I didn’t have it in me to torture anyone.” Draco looked up, taking in Longbottom’s frown. “I don’t think that makes me less responsible; I taught myself, and in the end, I was able to do it on my own.”

To his surprise, Longbottom asked. “Why couldn’t you do it?”

“At first I thought it was because I was too weak. Turns out I was just lacking in the amount of hatred required.”

“But you managed in the end.” Longbottom’s expression was pensive.

Draco nodded. “When faced with the same fate as the one you’re being told to inflict, not all of us turn out to be martyrs.”

Rising from his seat, Longbottom gazed at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he looked as if he was going to leave without a word, but then he said, “A friend once told me that it’s our choices which show us who we truly are, you know?”

Turning away, the Gryffindor pulled open Draco’s door and stepped into the hall.

 

 

 

When Theo came by Draco’s room it was late afternoon, the sky beginning to darken into twilight. Longbottom had undoubtedly returned to Hogwarts for his friend came alone, twisting his hands in front of him uneasily.

By this time, Draco had seated himself by his desk, where he’d been making notes in his journal. There were certain ideas forming in his mind, concepts he was not yet willing to discuss with the others, especially not under the current circumstances. He could see the lanky Slytherin in his periphery, but he didn’t bother to look up.

“Draco.”

Draco’s hand stilled, and with a sigh, he raised his head and arched an eyebrow.

Theo stepped closer and lowered himself onto the bed, clasping his hands in his lap. “Look, I came to talk to you about what happened earlier. It was a… a fuck up of sorts.”

“Of sorts?” Draco echoed. “What does _that_ mean?”

“I shouldn’t have said what I said when Neville was there.”

_Too right_ , Draco thought.

“I don’t want you to take what I said personally,” his friend continued.

“Oh?” Draco responded, his voice clipped. “And why’s that?”

Theo raised a hand to his head, fingers raking through his sandy hair. “I can see you’re offended… but surely you understand?”

“Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to elaborate,” Draco drawled.

Theo’s eyes roved over him as he tried to decipher Draco’s expression, then he sighed. “You can’t just expect the Order’s secrets to be divulged the moment you change sides. It was unreasonable to expect Neville – or any of us – to tell you about his situation.”

The blonde Slytherin raised an eyebrow. “Surely you don’t think that’s my main frustration.”

Theo gazed at him inquisitively.

“You don’t trust me,” Draco told him. “You.”

His friend’s expression morphed into regret. “Draco –”

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Draco said bitterly, “but I thought we’d moved forwards, you and I.”

“I have a hard time trusting anyone… except Neville,” Theo admitted. “Is that really so surprising?”

_No_ , Draco acknowledged to himself. Now that he thought about it, it really wasn’t surprising at all.

“I can’t help you in that regard Draco, but I can at least say that I was speaking about the Order in general, not myself.”

Draco snorted. “Is _that_ supposed to help me?”

Theo shook his head ruefully. “No, I guess not. You just need to be patient and not expect miracles. You changing sides is a big deal, sure, but it’s not necessarily proof enough, particularly for people who can only base their judgments on your name. It's not... it's not redemption, Draco.”

“I’m just tired of not knowing _anything_ ,” Draco insisted. “I’m not interested in being a mindless soldier; I thought I was moving on from that role.”

Theo shrugged. “You’d know even less if you’d decided to become a neutral party,” he pointed out.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes, well,” he said brusquely, “it still remains to be seen whether or not I’ve made a wise decision in allying myself with the Potter Party.”

The other Slytherin gazed at him a moment, causing an uncomfortable tightness to form in Draco’s chest. _Only Tonks and Andromeda know what I’ve said about Potter, not Theo_ , he insisted to himself during those tense seconds of silence.

“An opportunity will come; I'm sure,” Theo said finally. “But... in the Order’s eyes, you’ve got a lot of shit to make up for. You’ll just have to wait for a chance.” He rose to his feet. “I’m on dinner duty tonight; it’ll be ready in about an hour. Hope to see you there.”

“Mmm.”

It wasn’t an apology that Theo had come to him with, not really. It was, however, enough for Draco to recognise that perhaps, _perhaps_ he’d been expecting a bit much from the others.

Once Theo had closed the door behind him, Draco turned in his chair, picked up his quill, and bent over his journal once more.

 

 

 

That night, Draco went without Dreamless Sleep for the first time in almost a week.

_He was in the Great Hall and the Sorting Ceremony was underway. Rather than sitting with his fellow Slytherins, however, Draco was standing in the space between the heads of the house tables and the High Table. Before him stood the stool with the Sorting Hat perched on top, a line of students standing nearby as they nervously awaited their turn._

_Gazing behind him, Draco noticed a second line of students, all kneeling with heads lowered. Facing the four house tables, their backs were to him, hands bound behind them. Although he couldn’t see their faces, he could see some were trembling, could hear others sobbing quietly._

_“GRYFFINDOR!” cried the Sorting Hat and yet another child joined its fellows as they were forced to their knees._

_“Do it, Draco,” a voice purred by his ear._

_He looked sideways and saw Bellatrix was now standing beside him, McGonagall’s familiar pointed hat affixed to her head. His aunt’s eyes were dark with excitement as she reached up to stroke back a section of his hair with long, talon-like nails. The gesture would have been almost nurturing if it hadn’t been initiated by a madwoman, and it sent a shudder of revulsion through him._

_His feet started to move as if they had a mind of their own, and he found himself circling the line of students and coming to a stop before them. None of them met his gaze._

_Draco withdrew his wand from his robes and Bellatrix, still standing behind the kneeling students, clapped in glee._

_“HUFFLEPUFF!” the Sorting Hat shouted in the background as the ceremony continued without them; in his periphery, Draco saw another student head their way._

_Sidestepping to the left, Draco pointed his wand at the student at the end of the line. The bowed head lifted, and he found himself face to face with Andromeda._

_“Crucio!”_

_She crumpled to the ground, screaming and writhing. Bellatrix let out a delighted cackle at the sound._

_He moved along the line, casting the Cruciatus Curse on each student who knelt there: Ted Tonks, then Theo, Luna Lovegood, Filius Flitwick, and two students who’d served detention with him months ago._

_Finally, there was just one person still kneeling._

_The last figure looked up at him, chin tilting back almost in slow-motion, and Draco found himself staring into Harry’s emerald green eyes._

_“No,” Draco whispered, turning away. “I won’t.”_

_But something forced his body to twist back around, and he found himself facing Harry once more._

_The Gryffindor was lying on the ground in a pool of blood now, his torso slashed open in a dozen places, his school shirt a field of crimson poppies._

_“Well done, Draco,” a high pitched voice crooned. “You have an innate talent for torture it seems, just like your aunt.”_

_“I didn’t mean to do it!” he begged, gaping down at Harry’s lifeless corpse._

_“You did mean to, Draco; you lusted for it, and you relished every moment of it.”_

“I didn’t!” he cried, jolting into a sitting position.

It took a few moments for him to realise he was in his room at Almach Cottage, a minute for his sobs to die down.

Dawn was casting its pale pink fingers upon the horizon when he finally convinced himself it had all just been a dream.

 

 

 

Despite his disrupted sleep, Andromeda and Tonks were both already seated at the table when Draco emerged from his room that morning. It was obvious they’d arrived early to speak with him; Tonks had never managed to beat him to breakfast before.

The two women looked up as he entered the room, and he noted with surprise that they both bore contrite expressions.

“Draco,” Andromeda started, “would you sit?”

Silently, he complied, face taut with resignation.

Neither witch spoke as he reached for the teapot and prepared a cup of tea. Finally, after Draco had taken a sip from his mug, Andromeda let out a sigh. “Yesterday’s lunch didn’t… end on the best of terms, did it?”

“You noticed?” he deadpanned, averting his gaze as he cut into a scone.

“We received a Floo call from Kingsley late last night,” she continued. Draco looked up to see her exchange a hesitant glance with her daughter.

He raised an eyebrow. “And?”

Tonks’ expression told him all he needed to know in regard to whether or not he’d been accepted into their ranks. “The committee spoke at length. Some of them were concerned that your turnaround is merely a survival tactic rather than a change of heart,” she told him.

“I took the Veritaserum,” he insisted. “I answered all of their damn questions!”

“Exactly,” his cousin nodded, “and the committee read the transcript; the whole transcript, Draco.”

“But there was… _evidence_!” he persisted with gritted teeth. “Expressions of remorse, desire to change. Not all of my answers were terrible; I said nothing about wanting to kill Muggles or enslave Squibs. Perhaps I hinted at a bit of an aversion but surely that’s forgivable if not conceivable?” He looked pleadingly at his aunt.

Andromeda considered him sympathetically. “Unfortunately there were a few vocal reminders that the potion isn’t completely infallible.”

Draco pushed his scone away, his appetite waning. “So now what?”

Andromeda looked at her daughter pointedly. Tonks exhaled slowly. “Now… we give you a chance.”

Draco turned sharply in her direction, grey eyes narrowed in apprehension. From the look on his cousin’s face, whatever decision they’d come to had been more Andromeda’s than her own. “What does this chance entail?” he asked slowly.

“After you went to your room yesterday, the rest of us had a bit of a conversation,” Andromeda said. Neither Theo nor Longbottom had alluded to this, he realised. “You had a point, Draco. In hindsight, we realised that none of us have given you much chance to prove yourself trustworthy.”

Tonks looked at her mother tersely. “But for good reason – I thought we established that yesterday.”

“We did; you’re right, Nymphadora. Though I do believe that yesterday’s situation could have been handled a trifle more tactfully. I do agree, however, that there was some truth in what was said.”

“Like it or not, Draco, what you’ve been implicated in in the past won’t be easily forgotten– no matter the reasons behind them,” Tonks said. “People will be quick to distrust you.”

“Like the Order,” Draco commented distastefully.

Tonks inclined her head in acknowledgement. “Yes. And, furthermore, you’ll have to work harder than most to gain peoples’ trust.”

Draco gave a short nod. “So,” he said as he traced a finger around the rim of his mug, “what exactly did they say?”

“Following a vote, the Order ultimately decided to accept your wish to join their ranks on a probationary basis,” Andromeda told him. “They are still deliberating the capacity in which you’ll be permitted to assist them. There are divisions to consult with, vacancies to consider… unfortunately I’m not privy to most of these things – many of the internal workings of the Order are a mystery to me.” She glanced at her daughter.

“And I’ve sworn a lot of vows, so I’m little help to her,” Tonks admitted with a wry smile.

“You spoke with Remus and Kingsley about continuing with Potioneering the other day; they have deemed this acceptable, particularly as there’ve been no issues over the last three months. Training and combat proved to be a more contentious matter, however.”

“What about Theo?” Draco asked suddenly. “Is he allowed to participate?”

“Theo…” Tonks bit her lip hesitantly. “Theo’s circumstances were similarly contentious. Ultimately, the committee decided it would be in the Order’s best interests for Theo’s assistance to be strictly limited to Potioneering and Healing for the time being.”

“Why?” Draco demanded.

Tonks squeezed her amber eyes shut. “I’m not permitted to tell you the specifics.”

“They don’t trust him either,” Draco breathed. “That’s why, isn’t it?”

Tonks’ expression told him enough.

“That is _ridiculous_!” he fumed. “I can’t believe he didn’t – it’s because of his last name, isn’t it? Or is it because of where he was Sorted? _When he was eleven!_ Well, it turns out the Order of the Phoenix is built on a pile of steaming, duplicitous bullshit, just as I always suspected. And they criticise _me_ for being prejudiced –”

His tirade was abruptly cut off as Andromeda placed his wand in the centre of the table. Mouth hanging open inelegantly, Draco drew his eyes up to her, waiting for an explanation.

_Is this the chance they mentioned?_

“Mum and I recently took your wand to... a friend,” Tonks told him. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that your wandless abilities have been rather dismal here in comparison with how they may have been previously.”

He nodded, trying to keep his expression blank. “Someone intervened and restricted my magic.” _How barbaric._

“That’s right,” his cousin confirmed. “Anyway, last night we made some adjustments to the wards, allowing the constraints to become somewhat reduced. Until now, your wandless magic abilities have been almost entirely blocked by the cottage’s wards. Our specialist came and made alterations, bringing it down from eighty-five percent to thirty.”

Noticing that Draco was still seething, his aunt spoke up. “Bear in mind that no adjustments had been made since you arrived here at the end of December. You were a stranger to us then, Draco – it would have been foolish not to take precautions.”

“And now?” he growled.

“Now you need to prove yourself,” Tonks asserted. “Prove to us that we're making a good choice here. We’re granting you use of your wand, though you’ll find it has had similar restrictions put in place. I’m sure you’ll try and test its parameters yourself but I’ll tell you anyway – for now, you’re limited to the more basic defensive spells and charms. No hexes, no jinxes, no curses. _No Dark Arts_.”

He glared the implication, and after a moment, she shrugged. “I had to say it,” she grinned wryly.

“Thirty percent blocked,” Draco returned to Tonks’ previous comment, “Why?”

“Don’t ask why,” Tonks told him instead. “You can get worked up about that part, or you can be... mature... and simply accept it.”

“Fine,” Draco replied with a frown. “And… the Order approved all this?” he asked dubiously.

“Well... no, not exactly,” Andromeda admitted.

“What? You’re not going to mention it to them?”

Andromeda shook her head, allowing a small smile to grace her lips.

Draco reached across the table, emitting a soft sigh as the tips of his fingers brushed against his wand.

“Don’t make us regret our decision,” Tonks warned him as he took the wand in hand. “Any mishaps and we’re intervening. We’ve taken quite the risk in doing this, you know.”

“Tonks especially,” Andromeda added, with a warm glance in her daughter’s direction.

He frowned at his cousin. “Then why did you do it?”

Tonks smiled, then said, “In my opinion, you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”

“I’m guessing that’s a Muggle proverb?” Draco asked drily.

“Sure is,” she chirped brightly, then gestured across the table. “Now, are you going to eat that scone or not?”

 

 

 

Later that morning, Draco made his way to Theo’s room to share the news of the Tonks women’s decision. Catching sight of his friend, he paused in the doorway, his lips curving in amusement.

Theo was in the middle of writing yet another letter to Longbottom, however he seemed to have become distracted somewhere along the way. The young Slytherin was staring absently out the window, mouth curved in a dreamy smile as his thumb stroked over his bottom lip. In his other hand, his quill dangled limply from his fingers. A few stray drops of ink had blotted onto his missive.

“So… you and Longbottom are just friends, hmm?” Draco drawled from behind him where he leaned against the doorframe.

Theo jerked violently, likely dripping more ink. His head snapped around to stare at the blonde Slytherin. “How long have you been standing there?” he asked sharply.

“Long enough to become thoroughly disgusted by that sappy-sweet smile of yours,” Draco teased. “Been busy daydreaming, have you? I hope I wasn’t about to interrupt your… alone time.”

At his insinuation, Theo began to splutter, his cheeks tinging with pink.

“Stop panicking, Theo.”

“Panicking?” Theo asked faintly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Draco laughed at his friend’s terrible attempt at denial. “It’s times like these where I truly wonder about you, Theodore.”

“I’m not –”

“It’s your life,” Draco told him, “do what you want – _date_ who you want. But stop trying to hide it because honestly, you’re doing an utterly terrible job.”

Theo smiled sheepishly. “Neville and I are seeing each other,” he admitted, his features becoming even pinker.

“Really? I’m shocked,” Draco deadpanned.

“You’re not bothered?”

“I’m rather mystified – I must admit. But bothered? No. Anyone with eyes can see you’re happy. I suppose I can continue playing nice with Longbottom for your benefit.”

“How… nice of you,” his friend laughed.

“Indeed. But regardless, if they’re worth your time, I’ll try to tolerate them.”

“Even Gryffindors?” Theo smirked.

Draco sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. “Yes, Theo. Even Gryffindors.”


	14. Iniuriarum Reparationem

It didn’t take long for Draco to understand what Tonks had meant when she’d told him that he’d only be able to perform limited magic despite having his wand back.

Returning to his bathroom, he’d quickly discovered that he could not use magic to trim his hair or shave.

“Salazar’s balls; I should have known,” he muttered in irritation as he glared at his reflection in the mirror.

He placed his wand on the basin’s edge and fingered his hair with distaste. It had reached a length beyond what he usually allowed; it had been halfway through November when he’d cut it last, and it was March now. Though it was still a long way off, the burgeoning style reminded him all too much of his father, and Draco was no longer interested in resembling the man in any shape or form. He’d ask Tonks to take care of it for him, he decided before amending his decision almost immediately; as a metamorphmagus, it was all too possible that Tonks had never cut hair in her life. Theo or Andromeda would have to give him a trim instead – he’d just need to peel away another layer of his dignity and ask.

Draco _was_ fortunate to find, however, that his transfiguration abilities were sufficient enough for him to make some much-needed alterations to the garments which Harry and the Weasleys had dared to consider clothing. He spent much of the morning adjusting the length of his trousers and reviving his small collection of shabby, ill-fitting wizarding robes. The processes involved were much more complicated than they would have been without magical restrictions in place, though Draco had to admit that the challenge of trying to figure out the alternative charms was somewhat enjoyable.

It was almost lunchtime by the time Draco was satisfied, returning to the dining area clad in a newly transfigured set of charcoal trousers and a navy robe which had started the day distastefully maroon and threadbare. Andromeda chuckled when she lay eyes upon him, but although she teased him for dedicating the whole morning to indulging his vanity, she ultimately complimented his efforts.

Stepping into the kitchen, he inconspicuously poured water into a mug while his aunt’s back was turned. A moment later, he swore under his breath, inadvertently capturing the woman’s attention.

“Problem, Draco?” she asked mildly, peering at him over her shoulder as she tended to a pot of chicken soup.

“I still need to use the kettle to boil bloody water,” he muttered defensively, striding to the sink and flicking the water down the drain.

“Perhaps you should write a list of the spells currently inaccessible to you,” Andromeda commented.

“So you can fix it?”

“No. So Nymphadora and – and our… colleagues are aware,” his aunt corrected. “And perhaps so you can get a good idea yourself – if you catalogue the issues you may better anticipate problems and save yourself some frustration, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” he reluctantly acknowledged.

“You’ve dealt with your situation perfectly well up until now,” she said firmly. “Having a wand is not essential while you’re here, Draco.”

Frustrated, Draco tore his eyes away and busied himself with the kettle. “Colleagues?” he asked, deciding to change the subject somewhat. “Are you talking about the person who adjusted your wards... and my wand?”

“Those were two different people. And _no_ , I’m not going to tell you who.”

“And I wasn’t going to ask,” Draco lied.

“Alright.”

The conversation between them lulled over the next few minutes, Draco continuing to try to suppress his disappointment at still having to do things the Muggle way, and Andromeda pointedly ignoring his huffing.

“Kingsley will be visiting in the early evening,” Andromeda said eventually as she sent the cutlery in the direction of the dining table with a flick of her wand. “Nymphadora might be popping in as well, though she mentioned being on a job today and not knowing how long it would take to finish up.”

“And should I be… concerned about this meeting?” Draco asked slowly, pulling bowls out of the cupboard for his aunt to ladle soup into.

“It’s just him coming – it’s not really a meeting, Draco. He just wants to speak with you. Speak with us,” Andromeda amended as she took the bowls from his hands.

Draco pressed a hand to the pocket in which his wand was tucked. “Sounds concerning,” he admitted.

“We’ll find out in due time. Now, go and find Theo, would you? He’s been immersed in his books all morning and I’m sure he’s ravenous by now.”

With a nod Draco complied, trying his best to ignore the feelings of trepidation beginning to creep upon him.

 

 

 

When Shacklebolt entered the dining area followed by a solemn-faced Andromeda and Tonks, Draco got the feeling a private conversation had already occurred between the three of them in his aunt’s bedroom.  He frowned questioningly at Andromeda, but all he received in return was an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

“Come, boys,” Tonks said, her tone pleasant but tighter than usual, “time for a family meeting.”

Theo snorted lightly at her words but the two younger Slytherins complied, rising from their seats and following the other three into the living room. Andromeda and Shacklebolt settled on one sofa, while Draco, Theo and Tonks occupied the other. A moment later, a decanter of firewhisky was levitated onto the coffee table which stood between them, with five glasses following shortly after.

Draco raised an enquiring eyebrow at his cousin.

“It’s been that kind of day,” the young Auror told him with a shrug as she poured two fingers of whisky for each of them. “It’s a wonder I even made it here.”

“Well,” Theo murmured to Draco under his breath as he accepted his glass, “seems like this is going to be fun.”

“Mmm hmm,” Draco acknowledged. He took a sip of firewhisky, watching from the corner of his eye as the three older group members took part in a silent exchange.

Taking a swallow of whisky, Shacklebolt placed his glass back on the coffee table. Then, hands resting upon his thickly muscled thighs, he leaned forward and regarded Draco, who returned the Auror’s gaze warily.

“Mr Malfoy, I’ve come here to discuss the outcome of last night’s meeting. Andromeda and Tonks have told me that they spoke with you about the committee’s approval for you to take on a probationary role with the Order.”

“Yes. They did,” Draco responded tautly, with a quick glance at the two witches. “I’m to continue assisting with potion brewing.”

“That is correct,” Shacklebolt nodded. “However, in regard to your… _other_ capabilities… well, I trust you can understand the committee’s hesitation to involve you further at this point, despite how useful those competencies may be.”

The blonde Slytherin made no comment, fixing his grey eyes upon the decanter and aching for another swig of whisky.

“What… what did they say?” he asked finally, gaze still averted.

Shacklebolt let out a slow exhale, then reached into his robes, withdrawing a roll of parchment. “The proceedings are always recorded,” he explained gruffly as he slipped on a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses. “Transparency.”

Andromeda’s eyes flicked warily to the parchment in the Auror’s hands, lips pursed as she scanned its contents.

“As you know, the committee members were granted access to the transcript from your questioning,” Shacklebolt continued, eyes roving the parchment as he spoke. “Last night’s discussion was… lengthy, to say the least.”

Wordlessly, Theo reached for the decanter and poured out more whisky. Picking up his glass, Draco took a grateful swallow, relishing the burn as the liquid travelled down his throat.

“The concerns raised were… extensive, ranging beyond the scope of the information which you provided during the questioning. Although the committee is urged to exercise impartiality, I daresay that, for many of them, it proved to be a challenge.”

Of course, for who was making these decisions about his future? McGonagall. The other Dumbledore. The Weasleys. Doge. Lupin. Shacklebolt. Draco had had no chance of gaining their approval, of course he hadn’t – he’d caused them all grief in some way, either directly or to their families, colleagues and friends.

“To be frank, you’re seen as quite the liability, Mr Malfoy. Your reputation, your past, it’s… controversial and substantial.” Shacklebolt regarded Draco sternly from over the top of his glasses. “You – and your family – have a history of antagonistic interactions with Order members and sympathisers. You’ve put lives in danger and caused harm to them on numerous occasions, as well as their friends and family. You have a reputation for abusing your position of authority, deliberately subjecting younger students to –”

“I’m surprised you needed to spend so much time _discussing me_ ,” Draco interrupted impertinently, “since my… _unworthiness_ … is so damn _evident_!”

“Draco…” Andromeda warned.

“The majority of the committee were not prepared to overlook your past actions – particularly those occurring during your sixth and seventh years at Hogwarts,” Shacklebolt concluded as if Draco had not spoken at all, rolling up the parchment once more. “Even without considering your ties to He Who Shall Not Be Named, the counterevidence is… extreme.”

“Well then, your little meeting was a waste of time, wasn’t it, Shacklebolt?” Draco spat, rising to his feet. “What was the point of _any_ of this?” He turned his gaze to his aunt and cousin. “Both of you knew this would happen; why did you even bother?” He turned to Theo next, thrusting an accusatory finger at him. “And you! Saying all that bullshit about how I could make a difference, have some kind of input in my future when – _apparently_ – they barely let _you_ into their hallowed halls?” He clenched his fists and growled, “ _Fuck_ , I’m obviously deranged because I was _stupid_ enough to be persuaded to go along with all of this! Fuck the Order, _fuck_ Potter, fuck-”

“ _Sit_ _down_ , Mr Malfoy!” Kingsley rumbled as he stood too, all six foot seven of his considerable frame looming over him.

Eyes widening, Draco’s backside hit the sofa with a thud.

“Bludgering badgers! Draco, would you stop your – your _bullyragging_ for just a minute?” Tonks exclaimed, “or do I need to get my wand out and silence you myself?”

Jaw clenched, he glared at her insolently, his eyes flicking to Andromeda, Theo and Shacklebolt in turn as he took in their respective expressions: perturbed, bewildered, imposing.

“Well?” his cousin demanded.

Looking back at her, he stiffly shook his head.

“I must apologise for this, Kingsley,” Andromeda murmured, but the man put his hand on hers reassuringly.

“No need, Dromeda, no need.” Seemingly unruffled, he turned to Draco. “Mr Malfoy – perhaps a calming draught wouldn’t go astray?”

Draco shrugged noncommittally, but Theo rose to his feet and went to fetch one regardless, Andromeda sending him a small smile as he left the room. The group remained silent, watching the sandy-haired Slytherin return and press the small vial into Draco’s hand, his blue eyes averted all the while. After Draco had swallowed the potion and set the empty vial on the coffee table, the Auror began to speak once more.

“Hopefully our conversation can continue with a little more civility,” Shacklebolt said amiably. “I must admit, your – disappointment, shall we say? – came as a bit of a surprise.”

Draco nodded soberly. The calming draught had somewhat – though not completely – dulled the blind anger and frustration. However, a faint sense of regret was beginning to creep up on him at the realisation that he’d likely alienated himself further through this latest tirade.

_Perhaps I actually am going barmy – perhaps I inherited the notorious Black insanity after all._

“I… apologise,” he responded hollowly, eyes lowered. “I shouldn’t have…” his words faded off, and he shrugged again. Apologising wasn’t exactly his forte.

“It was never anyone’s intention to ‘waste your time’, Draco,” Andromeda told him gently, “and, while we can all clearly see that the committee’s decision has upset you, I think you’ve passed over the fact that they _have_ ultimately given approval for you to contribute to the cause.”

“They could have outright denied you,” Tonks added.

“How is this different to before though?” Draco grumbled. “I started making potions in _January_.”

“Because – for one – now it’s an allocated duty, not just anecdotal or coincidental. It’s a result of actively – and officially – declaring fealty to the Order and relinquishing your role as a Death Eater,” Tonks informed him. “Why have you been doing it up until now? To earn your keep, and because you enjoy brewing, right? Do you understand?”

He raised an eyebrow at her, doubtful that this difference – one which seemed rather inconsequential, in his opinion – would help him avoid Azkaban after the war.

“I meant what I said, you know.” Theo spoke up.

Draco turned to him, surprised that his friend – who was still quite subdued in company – was willing to voice his opinion.

His former dorm-mate continued quietly, “I do think you’d make a good addition to the Order. But – as I’ve said a number of times now – they’re not going to overlook your history, especially not without any other information to go by.” The rest of the group nodded in agreement.

“But I _have_ –”

“Perhaps you have,” Shacklebolt interjected. “It has been acknowledged that you aided in Garrick Ollivander’s breakout – along with that of Harry Potter and his friends. However, the nature of your contribution has also been critiqued as being rather… ambiguous.”

Draco opened his mouth to object.

“Well, that’s understandable,” Theo said, “since it conflicts with their prevailing impression of Draco.”

Shacklebolt nodded. “Furthermore, the recent betrayal of a so-called reformed Death Eater is fresh in many minds. People are understandably hesitant about taking similar risks.”

“Severus,” Draco uttered under his breath, and beside him, Theo flinched.

“Mr Malfoy, I will not attempt to delude you,” Shacklebolt said. “Some peoples’ opinions of you may never change, no matter how hard you work to redeem your past behaviour. That does not mean, however, that you should not bother. As one of the Order’s commanders as well as the MLE’s former Head Auror, I am all too familiar with social divisiveness. In times such as these, people’s emotions run high – their lives are unpredictable, stressful, traumatic and overwhelming.”

Draco frowned at the man, unsure of what he was implying.

“Our people are functioning as best they can. But they’re also exhausted, anxious, depressed and afraid. The Order is made up of everyday people who’ve had to become soldiers. Childhoods are being lost to this war,” Shacklebolt regarded Draco and Theo intently as he spoke. “All these factors impact upon peoples’ thought processes and actions. It can cause them to become overcautious or incautious, impulsive, obsessive, paranoid.”

Draco was failing to grasp the purpose of the man’s psychosocial analysis. “What are you trying to say?” he asked uncertainly.

Shacklebolt exchanged a look with Tonks, motioning for her to proceed.

“Kingsley knows about your wand, Draco,” Tonks said quietly.

Draco looked up at the Auror in surprise. “But…”

_“We received a Floo call from Kingsley late last night…”_

_“…last night the constraints were somewhat reduced…”_

“You’re allowing this? But why?” he asked the older wizard in confusion. “Surely this is the last thing anyone would want. Why would the committee allow it? No – it doesn’t make sense. _You_ told me the Order wasn’t comfortable with me holding a wand,” Draco reminded Tonks before turning to Andromeda, “and _you_ told me it had been placed in your care as the head of this household… _and_ that the Order hadn’t approved your decision to give my wand back.”

“In general terms, those statements are all true,” Shacklebolt acknowledged. “However, there are times when Remus and I must – respectfully – take advantage of our positions of authority and make decisions which deviate from the will of the majority. Such as now.”

Theo’s brow furrowed in concern. “I really can’t see this being taken well when it becomes common knowledge.”

“Such is the life of a commander,” Shacklebolt said wryly.

“Well… in all honesty,” Tonks piped up, “there’s only a few people who know that Harry gave Draco his wand back. There’s documentation of the belongings he arrived with and… well, it’s yet to be updated to include his wand.”

Shacklebolt inclined his head. “At this point, the Order has not approved your use of a wand, whether it be your own or someone else’s. The committee who convened last night were in unanimous agreement regarding your continued magical limitation, including upholding the wards which interfere with your ability to access your magic reserves.”

“However... the specific constraints were never dictated,” Andromeda admitted.

“Loopholes,” Theo recognised, as he smirked in approval.

Draco took in the expressions around him, unsure how _he_ should be feeling about all of this.

_Transparency? What transparency? Shacklebolt is intentionally deceiving his own inner circle! Which is fantastic for me – at the moment – but what will happen when people find out? Who will be blamed? I will._

“Who else knows about this?” He demanded, beginning to feel increasingly flustered. “Just the four of us or did the… the ‘Wand Distribution Committee’ convene and cast a vote too?”

Tonks let out a small snort of amusement, “Yes, Draco, that’s exactly what we call ourselves – me, Kingsley, Remus and Bill and Charlie Weasley, the official Wand Distribution Committee for the Order of the Phoenix.”

Draco put his head in his hands.

“Your cousin is teasing,” Andromeda told him, “and perhaps not at the best time,” she added, sending her daughter a reproachful look.

“So… the Weasleys?”

“Bill and Charlie are aware of this change of circumstances,” Shacklebolt conceded.

“But they –”

“Bill and Charlie will not be sharing this information,” Shacklebolt said firmly. “They understand the need for this to be treated with discretion.”

“Yes – because…wait, risks,” Draco recalled, turning to his aunt and cousin, “You mentioned risks last night.”

Tonks sighed. “Because – professionally, politically and morally – this _is_ a risk. I used to pride myself on my integrity you know, and now it’s been compromised,” she said, though not unkindly.

Nodding, Andromeda added, “If people learn of this – the wrong people at the wrong time – we could face serious repercussions. If any complications arise from this – if you were to betray the Order, for example – our actions could be interpreted as aiding and abetting.”

“Then why are you – any of you – allowing this? And don’t recite that condiment proverb to me again,” Draco warned Tonks, which garnered confused reactions from both Shacklebolt and Theo.

“He’s talking about a Muggle thing,” Tonks offered by way of explanation.

“Despite every reason we have to turn you away, to keep you locked away and completely unarmed, we will struggle if we refuse to use all the weapons we have,” Shacklebolt said. “The Order needs to become stronger if we truly wish to win this war. However – risk-taking does not entail recklessness. There is a reason we have not allowed you to fully access your magic at this stage.”

“Beyond what has been said, you’ve used Unforgivables, Draco,” Andromeda reminded him quietly. “You held a woman under the Imperius Curse.”

No one looked particularly surprised by the statement, not even Theo. But then again, Longbottom probably knew a great deal; perhaps he’d passed the information onto Theo as well.

“Not just then,” Draco murmured, “and not just the Imperius, either.”

“We’re aware,” Shacklebolt said. “You told us some of it during your questioning.”

“Most of it,” Draco croaked, then cleared his throat. “I think maybe – maybe all of it, but I couldn’t say for sure.”

He stared down at his hands, white knuckled as his nails dug into his palms. It was just as sickening now to revisit the memories of Madam Rosmerta – a woman he’d always liked – and Katie Bell – a girl he’d barely known – to remember the lengths he was prepared to go to in his desperation. Back then, he’d been ready to sacrifice everything to keep himself and his family alive, even his soul. Now… his life – and perhaps his mother’s too – depended on him making entirely different sacrifices.

“‘Remorse is impotence; it will sin again. Only repentance is strong - it can end everything’.”

They all turned to look at Theo.

“I got that quote from a Muggle,” the sandy-haired Slytherin said, his cheeks reddening from the attention, “but I think he makes a good point. How can anyone expect redemption without opportunity?”

 _It hardly matters if they never accept it_ , Draco thought to himself.

As if reading his thoughts, Tonks sighed and reached across the coffee table. “More whisky, anyone?”

 

 

 

The Auror and Order co-commander politely turned down the offer to stay for dinner.

“Politics, hmm?” Theo murmured as they settled before the chessboard in Draco’s bedroom after dessert.

“Dissent, controversy, chaos.”

“Chaos? I sincerely hope not,” the sandy-haired boy responded as he lined up his pieces, “but it’s a concern all the same; what do you think will happen when the rest of the Order find out?”

Draco shrugged. “I don’t even want to think about it.” He snorted. “I knew I was right about Aurors having no integrity.”

Theo’s eyes widened. “Make sure Tonks doesn’t hear you say that.”

“Don’t worry; I’m perfectly happy _not_ being murdered, thank you very much.”

 

 

 

It seemed almost as if Theo had been awaiting Draco’s blessing, for Longbottom visited the house three times over the next week. During his second visit the Gryffindor insisted Draco call him by his first name and, following a rather indiscreet nudge to the side from Theo, Draco grudgingly invited Neville to do the same.

While he would hardly voice it aloud, Draco had to admit that Neville wasn’t _that bad_ , particularly when he considered the alternatives.

 _Thank Merlin that Theo’s interested in him and not Weasley… or that boorish Finnegan_.

On the morning of Neville’s third visit, Draco shut himself away in Tonks’s bedroom. Since Theo had moved into Almach Cottage, he had spent little time here. In the past, he’d acknowledged his cousin’s room with a kind of scornful amusement. He’d seen the items within as a way to alleviate his boredom, an opportunity to peruse Muggle paraphernalia – satisfying his curiosity without the threat of his father’s chastisement – and reconfirm the superiority of his wizarding blood.

Now he stood in the centre of the room and gazed around at his cousin’s assortment of belongings with fresh eyes, admiring – for the first time – the way that she’d integrated both her Muggle and Wizarding heritage into her world. It was obvious that both Ted and Andromeda’s upbringings had tinged her own, and that she’d explored her own interests – seeking out whichever music, literature and fashion appealed to her.

Draco moved towards the shelves crammed with books. He’d given up on Tonks’ assortment of science fiction novels long ago, realising that, with such a limited frame of reference, his interpretations of the text were rather lacking. According to his cousin, Ted Tonks had been an avid reader of ‘Sci Fi’ as she called it, and had helped her to understand the nuances of the genre. Draco, too proud to ask for Tonks’s guidance, had no such person to bridge the gaps for him.

_“Wotcher! How’s the Sci Fi going, cousin?” Tonks chirped to him._

_“I’m not reading that rubbish any longer. It’s not literature.”_

_“You’re just saying that because you don’t understand it. Makes sense, though.”_

_Draco glowered at her. “Excuse me?”_

_Tonks’s eyes widened. “Oh! I’m not insulting your intelligence. I just meant its considered a rather complex genre by_ Muggles _. I don’t think you’ve been exposed enough to the Muggle world at this point, is all.”_

_“You could have said something earlier,” he snipped. “It would have saved me some time.”_

_“Well… I noticed what you were reading and I honestly didn’t think you’d keep at it so long,” she admitted playfully, “I didn’t have the heart to stop you; I didn’t want you to think I was making a fuss of you reading Muggle stuff!”_

 

Draco scrutinised the rows of novels, examining titles and pulling out books to see their covers.

_Which of these will help me better understand Muggles? It’s not as if Tonks has any introductory Muggle Studies texts here. She practically had live-in professors on the subject for parents._

_What would my father think if he could see me now? And what about Mother?_

No one had suggested he come here; Draco had made the decision of his own volition. He knew that the ‘chance’ that Andromeda and Tonks were giving him extended to more than simply behaving himself with his wand. They needed tangible proof of him trying to increase his understandings, to question, to become more aware of the world which co-existed with his.

 _Even if I don’t become a Muggle-lover by the end of this, at least I’m making an effort to broaden my perspective_ , he convinced himself.

He heard the distinctive voices of Neville and Theo as they entered the hall, followed shortly by footsteps and the click of a door closing. Draco smiled slightly to himself for a moment, happy for his friend. Then, his expression warped into a grimace; he really didn’t want to think about what the two of them were getting up to together, after all.

Draco’s fingers skimmed past J.R.R. Tolkien’s trilogy, _The Lord of the Rings_. He’d flicked through the first novel early in his stay and had been appalled.

By the end of his perusal, Draco had piled three books beside him: _The Power of One_ by Bryce Courtenay, _Little Women_ by Louisa May Alcott _,_ and _To Kill a Mockingbird_ by Harper Lee. He had no clue whether any of them would be of use to him, but Tonks’s personal library wasn’t infinite, after all.

He decided to try _Little Women_ first. It was the final book he’d selected, and a hesitant choice on his part, being originally published over one hundred years earlier. From the looks of it, Tonks had had this edition in her possession for a long time; the pages were dog-eared and yellowed, and ‘Dora Tonks’ had been written on the inside in a childish hand.

Sinking into his cousin’s mountain of plush dragons, Draco opened to the first chapter and began to read.

 

 

 

It was almost an hour and a half before he felt a pang of hunger which was urgent enough to motivate him to rise. Draco closed _Little Women_ and clambered from the bed, tidying Tonks’s assortment of stuffed creatures before taking the small stack of novels to his own bedroom. After depositing them on his bedside table, he headed to the kitchen to prepare enough sandwiches for Andromeda, Theo, Neville and himself. He enjoyed the methodical process of chopping, spreading, stacking, slicing – it was like making potions but with less perilous consequences if one’s thoughts were to wander.

He scrutinised the arrangement on the platter then went to fetch more bread, deciding to make more than the usual amount. If the other two boys were anything like him, they’d be rather hungry after their exploits.

“No-no,” Draco muttered to himself as he sliced more ham, “you do _not_ want to think about that.”

“You certainly have a lovely garden,” he heard a dreamy voice say to Andromeda.

Draco froze, his hands hovering over the platter as lifted his head to stare, stricken, in the direction of the door leading outside.

A moment later it clanged open and his aunt stepped into the house, followed closely by a vibrantly-dressed Luna Lovegood.

Their eyes met and the blonde girl fixed him with an unreserved smile as she swung a basket of blackberries from her arm. “Good afternoon, Draco. Those are some delightful little sandwiches.”

 

 

 

The five of them – Draco, Andromeda, Theo, Neville and Luna – sat around the table in the dining room drinking coffee and eating the ‘delightful little sandwiches’ which Draco had prepared for lunch.

They’d been talking amiably for about ten minutes when Neville lowered his sandwich and stared down at the table, tilting his head to examined it from several angles. “It _is_ bigger than usual, isn’t it?”

Theo paused in his eating to scrutinise it too, while Draco gazed at his aunt expectantly.

“It is,” Andromeda acknowledged. “The table is fixed with an Intuitive Extension Charm which allows it to adjust to match the number of people within the house. It’s a bit longer than usual… perhaps it knows Nymphadora will be coming ’round – Merlin knows _I_ can hardly keep track of the comings and goings of that girl.”

Theo hummed appreciatively.

“Does it reach a maximum size?” Neville asked curiously, smoothing his hand along the wood as he ate.

Andromeda paused, considering. “Well... not as far as I’ve seen. From memory, the most it’s held is about twenty people, but not for a very long time.” Her eyes flicked briefly to Draco. “I grew up in a household with a monstrously formal dining room, you see. The family table could always seat thirty and I hated how impersonal it was. So, once I left home and was able to make my own choices, I knew I’d never own such an unnecessary piece of furniture, especially not for just the three of us.”

Her words reminded Draco of the family dining room at the Manor. Even though they used a separate formal dining room when entertaining guests, the table which was used by the immediate Malfoy family was just as needlessly large there only being three of them, just like the Tonks family.

“Clever of you to get one with that kind of Extension Charm,” Theo remarked.

“I didn’t actually; Ted made it. It was his specialty,” Andromeda replied fondly, trailing her fingers over the varnished wood.

The rest of the group nodded solemnly, conversation fading into the sort of uncomfortable silence which often came with the mention of Ted Tonks’s name.

“It will be getting bigger than this before long,” Luna spoke up softly, “and it’ll stay a large size for the long term too, I believe.”

The other four stared at her quizzically.

“What do you mean, Luna?” Neville asked slowly. “Do you know something that we don’t?”

“Long term visitors?” Draco queried, avoiding the Ravenclaw’s eyes and glancing at his aunt to gauge her reaction instead. Andromeda continued to watch Luna inquisitively, looking neither upset nor excited by the concept.

The blonde girl smiled at the group dreamily. “With such a long table, you’ll need to transfigure some more chairs so that everyone can sit down. Or perhaps you could turn these into benches. Yes, with an Extension Charm applied to them; that would suit well.”

“Benches,” Andromeda mused. “That’s actually a very good idea. Ted never thought of doing that. It would save us time in the long run.”

“Rather provincial, if you ask me,” Draco sniffed.

Theo rolled his eyes at him. “Good thing no one asked you then, isn’t it?”

“Do fuck off, Nott.”

The sandy haired boy leaned closer to whisper in his ear. “Already taken care of; thanks for the offer, though.” He winked.

“ _Merlin_ , Theo,” Draco groaned. “I’d expect such a thing from _Blaise_ , not you. It’s just disturbing when you say vulgar things.”

Theo grinned impishly, then turned and planted an affectionate kiss on Neville’s cheek. Neville – none the wiser – beamed.

For the next few minutes, the group continued to pry information from Luna. Disappointingly she would not – or perhaps, could not – elaborate further.

When everyone had eaten their fill and drained their coffee cups, Neville voiced his interest in seeing the garden.

“Well you could have looked with Andromeda and Lovegood earlier if you hadn’t been so… preoccupied,” Draco told him snidely.

“Good thing I have plenty of time to look now,” Neville replied amiably. “Coming, Theo?”

“Yeah. I was hoping you could take a look at our mandrakes anyway. I’m planning to experiment a bit with the Oculus Potion recipe, but to do it anytime soon, I’ll need to speed up their growth cycle… if that’s possible. If I’m on the right track – which I think I am – I’m hoping to…” Theo’s voice faded off as the two young men made their way outside, the Slytherin gesticulating eagerly as he continued to share his idea with Neville.

“They bring out the best in each other, don’t you think?”

Draco turned to see Luna standing by his elbow, smiling fondly as she watched the Gryffindor and the Slytherin meander through the garden. He stared, surprised that she was speaking to _him_.

“I need to make a Floo call,” Andromeda announced before Draco could reply. “I’ll be awhile, I think.” She gave him a pointed look before leaving the dining room.

Draco sighed internally and damned the woman and her indirect form of meddling. She had no Floo call to make; he was sure of it. He glanced at Luna again, who was now smiling serenely at him.

_Fucking hell._

“Would you like some more coffee, or tea perhaps?” he asked.

“Oh, tea would be lovely, thank you Draco.”

He made his way into the kitchen to start the kettle. She trailed behind, settling herself on one of the stools on the opposite side of the counter.

How was he supposed to start? Draco was a skilled enough conversationalist; his parents had been dragging him to functions and forcing him to speak with strangers all his life. This was different though. He’d tortured Luna, slashed her open, made her bleed. He’d done what his aunt asked of him, because he’d been too scared to defy her, because in his eyes it had been the only option. How could anyone excuse him for that, let alone the victim herself?

But then he remembered her words down in the cellar. She’d forgiven him that day – she’d told him so – and she’d made it sound as if it was the easiest thing in the world. Then again, perhaps the circumstances had provoked the response – maybe she’d been saying it to try and keep herself safe, rather than it being a true representation of her feelings. He didn’t think that was true though; the way she was acting towards him now suggested that she didn’t seem to hate him.

He could do this.

“Listen, Lovegood, I –”

“Luna,” she interrupted. “I’d much prefer you called me Luna.”

“Hmm. Alright… Luna.” Draco swallowed. “I would like to apologise for what happened to you at the Manor… what I did to you, in particular.”

The girl cocked her head to the side thoughtfully. “I did tell you at the time that I forgave you, don’t you remember?”

Draco spooned tea leaves into a teapot, then filled it with boiling water. “I haven’t forgotten what you said. But… I want you to know I’m being sincere. The way you were treated – the way I treated you – was shameful. You didn’t deserve what happened to you, and I certainly didn’t help.”

“Don’t be silly,” she smiled, “of course you helped. You gave us the hint about Dobby. It was very obvious.”

 _Well, perhaps to a Ravenclaw_ , Draco thought wryly.

“I would have done more than that if I could have,” he said quietly. “But… well, I’m sure you remember what Bellatrix and Greyback are like.”

Luna reached out and patted his arm gently. At the touch, Draco inhaled sharply, willing himself to stay still; whether or not she knew that the Dark Mark lay directly beneath where her fingers were pressed to his jumper, he could not tell.

“Those two are cruel and twisted… poisoned to their very cores. You’re not like them. You never have been. Perhaps you had to play that role before, but you’re not truly a monster, Draco.”

_You’re wrong._

“It’s inexcusable what I –”

“ _Draco_.” The sharpness of her interjection stunned him into silence; the tone was so uncharacteristic of airy-fairy Looney Lovegood. “Please try and listen.” She gazed at him a moment, then nodded to herself as if satisfied by what she saw. Her voice softened substantially as she continued. “I know you hate yourself for what you’ve done. Lots of people hate you now; some of them will forgive you or even give you another chance; some will keep hating you no matter how hard you work to fix it.

“Not everyone will understand what it’s like to have to do terrible things to save their family, but I do. Daddy was blackmailed and he would have followed through with it to save me, even if it meant hurting other people… except Harry, Hermione and Ron intervened and gave him another choice before he could.

“I forgive you for your part in what happened; I do. In time, other people will forgive you too.”

Draco wanted so desperately to object and argue with her, to tell her just how undeserving of her forgiveness he was, or of anyone’s, for that matter. Being given a chance to right his wrongs was one thing, but forgiveness wasn’t something he could ever expect.

“Don’t.”

Draco blinked. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t try and tell me who I should and shouldn’t forgive.” She smiled, then withdrew her hand from his arm.

He nodded numbly, then carefully reached for the teapot. Silently, he poured their tea and slid Luna’s cup towards her.

“Now… shall we join the other two in the garden?” she asked, accepting her mug with a smile. “I daresay the sunshine will help with your little Nargle problem.”

Draco stared at her in bewilderment as she headed for the door, casting that dreamy smile of hers at him from over her shoulder before stepping outside. After a few moments of trying to decipher the meaning behind her words; unsuccessful, he shrugged to himself and followed.

 

 

“I’ll be there in a sec’, Theo,” Draco heard Neville call.

Hand on his doorknob, Draco paused and looked around, noticing that the Gryffindor was heading toward him.

“Draco, can I come in for a minute?” he asked softly.

With a nod and a beckon, Draco invited him in.

“This is for you.” From his robes Neville withdrew a scroll of parchment and a small drawstring bag of dark blue velvet.

“A gift?” Draco drawled. “Why, you shouldn’t have. And behind Theo’s back too!”

Neville rolled his eyes. “This isn’t from me. I’m just a messenger.”

“Who’s it from, then?”

“Read the note and find out. I was just told to make sure you do so in private.”

Draco eyed him. “Do you know what it says?”

“No,” Neville replied sincerely, “and I don’t know what’s in that bag, either. It’s for you, not me.”

 _Oh Salazar. Sometimes Gryffindors can be so disappointingly guileless_ , Draco thought disparagingly as he nodded and took the bag and letter.

“Anything else?” Draco asked pointedly, as Neville continued to stand before him, seemingly waiting for him to open the bag.

Neville blinked, then smiled sheepishly. “Nope. Luna and I are heading off now. Hopefully we’ll be able to pop back soon.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, regarding the other boy for a moment. “Try not to be too much of a Gryffindor in the meantime, Longbottom. Theo cares about you, you know.”

Neville grinned. “I’ll be careful.”

Draco nodded in response and, with a small wave the Gryffindor exited the bedroom.

Seating himself cross-legged on his bed, Draco unrolled the scroll of parchment first and read the short note. A surge of respect rose up in him as he took in the deliberately vague message.

Perhaps _some_ Gryffindors had the propensity for craftiness after all.

 

 

 

> _Dear Draco,_
> 
> _This will be the only letter that I send._
> 
> _Look inside the drawstring bag. You’ll know what to do._
> 
> _Harry_
> 
> _P.S. I’d love to get a copy of that book you were reading the day I got my wand, but I can’t remember the title for the life of me._

 

Curiosity piqued, he followed Harry’s instructions, and a smile crossed his face as he pulled out a gold coin with a smooth, shiny face.

Draco tapped his wand against the surface of the fake galleon.

“ _Dark Uprisings of the Modern Age_ ,” he whispered – the secret code that Harry had alluded to in the postscript of his letter.

Words began to form on the surface of the coin. He held it closer to his face, the better to see the tiny script.

 

> **_Answer this to prove who you are: Tell me why I would know what type of wand you carry._ **

Draco smiled approvingly at the words. “ _Emendo tabellae_.” He hoped his harnessed wand would be able to manage the incantation.

To his relief, the words vanished, allowing him to replace them with his own.

 

> **_A house elf disarmed me and then you pilfered it, you prat._ **

“ _Missito_!”

Draco sat and waited for Harry’s response to appear, heart thundering in his chest. However, after ten minutes passing with no reply, Draco grew impatient. He stuffed the coin into his pocket, and made his way to the kitchen.

He made himself a cup of coffee and retrieved a leftover sandwich from the fridge. As he sank into a chair at the table, he felt the warmth in his pocket to signify a reply.

 _Bloody typical_ , Draco thought to himself as he picked up his plate and cup and returned to his bedroom. He placed them on his desk, then pulled out his coin to read the message.

It was almost impossibly difficult to make out the miniscule words which stretched across the fake galleon. Squinting, he pulled out his wand to enlarge the coin, smiling in satisfaction when his engorgement charm solved the problem without distorting the script.

 

>   ** _Git. It’s good to be able to speak to you again. Who delivered my gift to you?_ **
> 
> **_Longbottom brought it this afternoon. He came to visit my housemate._**

Harry’s reply came much quicker this time.

 

> **_Neville! Is he still there with you? Who is your housemate? I’m guessing you don’t mean Andromeda or Tonks._ **

Draco eyed the exclamation mark on the coin with amusement. Trust Granger to incorporate appropriate punctuation into the charm.

 

> **_Theodore Nott. He and Longbottom are friends of a sort. Longbottom was here for most of the day but he left a little while ago._ **
> 
> **_Merlin! Another friendship between a Slytherin and a Gryffindor? What is the world coming to?_ **

Draco frowned down at the coin in his palm. ‘Another friendship’? Was this what their strange relationship was?

 

> **_Back when we were eleven, I offered you my friendship. Do you remember?_ **
> 
> **_I do. I’d like to accept it now, if your offer still stands._ **

Draco bit his lip as he regarded the words.

 

> **_The offer still stands. I’m glad you changed your mind._ **

With a whispered _missito_ , he delivered the message, wondering whether he’d regret sharing this abnormally unguarded sentiment.

 _Friends. Allies. You’re being practical,_ he assured himself.

 _You’re being a fool,_ another voice said, one that sounded suspiciously like his father.

 _Those cunning folk will use any means to achieve their ends_ , recited the Sorting Hat.

 _But this isn’t cunning, is it?_ Came the eerie high-pitched tones of the Dark Lord. _You seek the boy’s approval, don’t you Draco? I thought you loathed him._

 _I want whatever he’s willing to give me,_ Draco thought to himself decisively.

_Things have changed, and I’m changing too._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Harry’s eyes scanned the message Draco had sent him once more, and then he closed his fingers around the coin, cradling his hand against his chest. He stared up at the ceiling of their tent and listened to the rain as it splatted against the canvas, a smile creeping across his face.

“Harry, are you awake or having a nap? Dinner’s ready.” Hermione appeared by the foot of his bed, ladle in hand.

Harry lifted his head. “I’m awake. I’ll be there in a sec.”

Hermione peered at him curiously. “You look kind of happy. Any reason why?”

“Maybe,” he commented. “Maybe.”

Somewhat nonplussed, Hermione smiled then wandered away.

Harry pushed himself up into a sitting position, pocketing his coin before he rose to follow his friend. His brain was already formulating a response, but the words which came to mind were ones he’d never dream of saying.

_I’m glad we’re friends too._

_Maybe you’ll think it’s strange, but… I miss you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two spells used by Draco were invented for the purpose of this story. Here are the translations (FYI I don't speak Latin so they may not be 100% correct!)  
> Emendo tabellae - 'edit the missive'  
> Missito - 'dispatch'
> 
> Thanks for reading so far :)


	15. Beyond the Wards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my sister for editing.
> 
> There is a small section from HBP towards the end of this chapter.

Over the next couple of days, Draco’s pocket burned almost constantly. His correspondence with Harry was invigorating, novel despite their careful avoidance of more precarious topics, and a welcome reprieve from the growing mundanity of his daily routine.

Draco could only guess what had possessed Harry to reach out to him; those few days in January together had been capricious, a strange outlier in their otherwise unfavourable association. And that Harry had done so after all this time made him wonder, filling him with an almost insatiable desire to learn why. But he couldn’t ask; he _wouldn’t_ ask.

He briefly toyed with the idea of mentioning the coin to Theo, but to do so could send him down a rabbit hole Draco wasn’t quite sure he was ready to dive down. Even if his account was carefully curtailed, the idea of delving into the backstories and preceding circumstances told of a road cobbled with discomfiture. It was, inevitably, a conversation he wasn’t ready to have, especially when he was still grappling with the particulars himself.

Consequently, Draco’s winding, endless labyrinth of confusion continued to propagate in private as the newly opened channel of communication between him and Harry became his prospective gateway to salvation.

He and Harry fell into a routine where the initiator of each conversation would pose a question which would allow the other to prove their identity. The title of Tonks’ book – _Dark Uprisings of the Modern Age_ – continued to serve as a means to activate the faux galleon, and the question-answer procedure served as an additional safeguard. Due to their rocky past, the question often seemed to refer to a previous altercation; their disputes had been the essence of their school-time relationship, after all. But despite this, each time he felt the sensation of heat near his hip Draco would find his mouth curving uncontrollably into a smile. He would picture Harry squinting at the tiny text on the coin, his face lit by the soft glow of his wand; no matter the hour, it was always dark when he visualised the other boy. And in his mind, Harry was smiling too.

 

 

 

**_What did you dress up as in third year during the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw Quidditch match?_ **

**_Fuck, I was a real piece of work._ **

**_Yeah you were. But that’s not the answer, Draco._ **

**_Fine. I dressed up as a Dementor. Are you satisfied, Potter?  
_ **

**_I certainly am. Now that that’s taken care of: Draco… I forgot to thank you._ **

**_For what? Being a right little arsehole?  
_ **

**_No, you git, not for that. For helping us get out of the cellar. I actually never thanked you._ **

**_I did no such thing._ **

**_Yes, you did; don't try and deny it. At the time, Ron thought you’d simply fucked up and revealed something you weren’t meant to, and for a while I believed the same thing myself. But that’s not true. You gave us a clue to help us escape._ **

**_Lucky you had Granger and Lovegood there with you, or you and Weasley would never have made it out._ **

**_Shut up, Malfoy._ **

****

****

****

**_Where did we run into each other in summer, 1994? Name two associated magical creatures._ **

**_The Quidditch World Cup. Veelas and Leprechauns… is that what you were looking for?_ **

**_You’re correct. Very astute._ **

**_Not really._ **

**_Yeah, not really. I was just trying to be nice._ **

**_Do Slytherins even know how to be nice?_ **

**_Shut up, Potter._ **

****

****

****

**_Who forgot to take the Sorting Hat off their head during our Sorting Ceremony?_ **

**_Honestly Potter, does anyone not know the answer to that?_ **

**_You still have to answer, Draco._ **

**_Wow, who would’ve thought that Harry Potter would be a stickler for the rules? I’m astonished. It was Neville Longbottom._ **

**_Git._ **

**_Prat. Anyway; have you heard from Weasley’s sister lately?_ **

**_Ginny? No? Why? What’s happened? Is she okay?_ **

**_Calm down. It's not like I've heard anything. But I thought she was your girlfriend._ **

Ex-girlfriend. Theo had said she was his ex-girlfriend but Draco needed to hear it from Harry.

**_We broke up last year. You really thought we were still together? Even though you and I… you know?_ **

**_She still could have been your girlfriend._ **

**_Bloody hell, Draco, you really think I’d do something like that?_ **

**_I guess not._ **

**_Right. Why are you asking if I’ve heard from her anyway?_ **

**_No reason, just curious.  
_ **

****

****

****

**_Who else had the misfortune of not being old enough to get their Apparition license with the rest of the cohort?_ **

**_Ernie MacMillan… Uh. Maybe others, but he was the only other one in Potions with us._ **

**_Good enough. So, is there anything you’re allowed to tell about what you’re doing right now?_ **

**_I’m lying in a bed._ **

**_You’re an idiot, Potter._ **

With a smile, Draco slipped the galleon away and reached for his book. He continued to read without really absorbing the words, his attention split as he impatiently waited for his pocket to heat up again.

Since they’d begun this correspondence, it was no longer simply an assertion that Draco and Harry's enmity had ceased. In addition to Harry labelling it so, the most recent interactions between the two of them had unquestionably positioned them as friends. Although their rivalry still remained, it was more good-natured than acerbic nowadays; the product of a natural competitiveness which hadn’t dampened.

While he was becoming increasingly enamoured it didn’t completely blind him; Draco still found Harry annoying and almost painfully Gryffindor. At times they seemed to be on completely different wavelengths, something which was further exacerbated by having to rely on interpreting each other’s written communication.

But perhaps the war, the saturnine catalyst that it was, was forcing them both to grow up and consider the bigger picture, to question and contemplate their respective truths. The world wasn’t divided neatly into four houses, after all. Eventually they all needed to move beyond the mould in which Hogwarts had cast them.

After five minutes of silence Draco gave up on the idea that he’d get a reply anytime soon; perhaps Harry had finally gotten out of bed. Or perhaps, perhaps he was still in bed, but had become preoccupied with other things.

Draco’s cock twitched at the thought.

Since he was officially on Harry’s side in the war now, would it really be that bad if he stopped fighting so hard to suppress these feelings of his? Was it really shameful to lust after the Boy Who Lived now that Draco was no longer the Dark Lord’s instrument and now that the notion of his father’s disapproval was more laughable than anything else?

Despite his continued hesitations, he couldn’t deny that there was something about the Gryffindor which had enraptured him much more than any brief fling ever should. He had to admit that Harry was powerful, charismatic, and pretty damn attractive too. Come to think of it, he’d even managed to win Lucius Malfoy’s admiration once upon a time, and outsmarted the patrician on another. When Draco had first set off for Hogwarts, his father had wanted him to befriend the presumed Dark wizard that was Harry Potter. The plan had fallen by the wayside of course, when Draco was rejected for Weasley and Harry had been swathed in crimson and gold and claimed as Dumbledore’s champion. But it wasn’t just this – it wasn’t just his political and magical capital but _something else_ which continued to captivate Draco so maddeningly.

However, even though he continued to work on his prejudices, blood-status continued to preoccupy Draco. While his paternal ancestry might be acceptable, Harry wasn’t a pure-blood himself; even with an esteemed social status, a match between them would be disapproved of by the Malfoys' contemporaries. Regardless of Draco’s newfound disdain for his father, the thought continued to haunt him. What would his mother think? What would his friends think?

But in the end it was all a pipedream, and reality was a very different beast for, apart from some casual mentions here and there, Draco and Harry hadn’t revisited the subject of their trysts in January. There was no shared future promised to them; Draco’s anxieties were being fed by hypotheses, nothing more.

So really, just how much did blood need to influence his indulging in a little harmless fantasising?

Thoughts of what Harry _might_ have been up to had impressed upon Draco to the point that he was halfway to full hardness now and continuing to swell, his jeans becoming uncomfortably tight. Giving into temptation, he popped the button and drew his zip, pushing his trousers and underwear down his thighs and tossing them to the floor.

As he propped himself up into a sitting position, knees bent and legs spread wide, Draco imagined what it would be like if Harry was there to perform these ministrations himself. The Harry of his imaginings would be kneeling between his thighs, dark hair mussed and school shirt hanging unbuttoned from his shoulders, a picture of erotic wantonness. His hands would slide down Draco’s sides, fingers tracing reverent circles across his abdomen before gliding lower to grasp hold of his cock. Harry would stroke up and down his length a few times before sliding his own body down and leaning forward, pink tongue extending to lick a smooth stripe from root to tip before taking the whole of Draco into his warm, willing mouth. With a glance down, Draco would find those enthralling green eyes peeking up at him from beneath long sooty lashes, pupils blown wide with lust. And then, Harry would proceed to take him apart.

Draco paused briefly, pulling his hand away from himself to tug off his shirt, now entirely nude. It served as a practicality as well as a preference; while his magic still enabled him to spell the come from his skin, only laundering would remove it from his clothing. He’d learned his lesson after his pyjamas had been stained with Harry’s essence that final morning before his departure.

Before he continued, he reached across to the bedside table to procure a pot from the drawer. Since Draco hadn’t been able to go out and buy lubricant for himself, he’d become rather adept at making his own. He slicked his fingers with the homemade salve before drawing his hand back to his prick, moving in a downwards caress before curling his fingers around the base. He began to stroke in earnest, wrist twisting as he went. As his thumb brushed over his frenulum, he moaned, hips thrusting upwards in an unconscious twitch. Biting his lip, he trailed his left hand up his stomach, reaching for a nipple. Pinching and twisting it, he pretended his fingers were Harry’s teeth.

Was Harry doing this as well right now? Did he ever find himself lying in the dark, Granger and Weasley asleep nearby as he surreptitiously addressed his needs? Did he ever think of Draco during those lonely hours between dusk and dawn?

If Harry had stayed at Almach Cottage longer, would they have gone further than they had on those two occasions? Would they have spent their sleepless nights practicing and learning each other’s intricacies? Would Draco have worked out how to make Harry _scream_?

He came with a soft cry, semen painting his stomach as he bit down on the fist he’d stuffed inside his mouth.

For a while he lay still, staring up at the ceiling in a sated daze as the fingers of one hand absently trailed through the mess on his abdomen. He felt good, calm and somewhat drowsy. But he would feel even better if he wasn’t bathing in the afterglow alone.

After a few minutes he rolled over to retrieve his pants and the hot metal disc tucked within them.

**_And you’re a wanker, Malfoy._ **

Draco smirked to himself as he read the message. _Oh, Harry. If only you knew._

“Fuck,” Draco groaned, “if I never have to do that again, it’ll be too soon.”

He and Theo were currently ensconced in Draco’s room after Almach Cottage had hosted a three-hour Order meeting. Three hours where he’d tried his darnedest to keep his mouth shut and play the role of the newly reformed and misunderstood ex-scoundrel.

Now, finally free to speak his mind, Draco was free to seethe.

“That woman!” he raged. “That woman is utterly… _incongruous_! Those fucking Weasleys will be the death of me.”

“Indeed,” Theo said mildly, attention focused on the blurb of _To Kill A Mockingbird_ , which currently sat at the top of Draco’s reading pile.

Molly Weasley was not one to let her opinion go unvoiced, they'd learned. She’d expressed her concern about there being ‘children’ present at the meeting, for ‘surely they’re too young to hear all of this’. But her haranguing had also been tinctured by what she apparently considered to be permissible exemptions to this argument, one of which included the subject of Draco’s past decisions. She seemed unable to notice the unreasonableness of categorising him as a child in certain instances but ‘old enough to know better’ in others; she’d condemned Draco as backstabbing, malicious and deceitful, declaring him an irredeemable victimiser who deserved no better than Azkaban. Her husband had tried to placate her but to little success, and surprisingly, it had been Remus who’d managed to quell her in the end.

“Molly!” he’d said firmly, effectively cutting off her tirade. “We held a vote, as you know. We are allowing Draco to be in attendance at tonight’s meeting as an of-age wizard and Order member. I must respectfully ask you to keep your opinions to yourself so that we can begin to address our planned agenda. You may discuss your concerns with Kingsley and I at another time.”

Molly looked furious, but to everyone’s relief she simply snapped, “Very well! I intend to do so.” And then, lips pursed and cheeks aflame, the woman fell silent, glowering down at her notes.

Draco commended himself for maintaining a neutral expression, while inside he was awash with triumph.

For all of her vehemence, the subject matter covered at the meeting was rather dry. Arthur Weasley had provided updates on Muggleborn security measures and how they were faring with locating displaced persons. A woman named Hestia Jones had detailed her group's progress with monitoring and dismantling suspected Death Eater strongholds; apparently the old Rosier mansion was the Order's most recent acquisition. Andromeda had detailed Almach Cottage's latest inventories of potions and ingredients, from which the group compiled an updated edition of the standardised list of supplies to be kept at each safe house. There had also been discussion of how training Order members in rudimentary on-field healing was progressing, followed by strategising as to how these skills could be clandestinely taught to Hogwarts' fifth to seventh years (Mrs Weasley had become rather vocal at this point in the conversation).

“Honestly, that Weasley woman is fit to bursting with her own self-importance,” Draco continued. “Maybe that’s why she birthed so many children – father Weasley had no better way of shutting her up!”

Theo’s blue eyes flicked to his, an eyebrow raised. “A little bothered aren’t you, Draco?”

“I have a legitimate reason to be pissed off, don’t you think?”

“I think that everyone thinks their opinions are legitimate, actually,” Theo remarked, “and it’s not as if the woman has no reason to dislike you.”

“Well, Weasleys and Malfoys are predisposed to dislike each other regardless of what I have and haven’t done. Plus, I expect that her sons probably embellished their stories along the way.”

“Yes, speaking of sons,” the other Slytherin piped up, as if eager to move the topic along, “what did you think about Bill and Charlie, anyway? They seem a little more mellow to me – maybe they didn’t inherit Molly’s temper and their shares were passed onto the Weasley in our year instead.” He grinned.

Draco had spent a great deal of the night's meeting eyeing Bill and Charlie Weasley from beneath his lashes. Being significantly younger than these two eldest sons, Draco had had little to do with them. But now he was interested in these people, two of only a handful who knew he was practicing magic in secret, who’d played a part in enabling it to happen. There hadn't actually been any voting within this other group of individuals, but they'd complied with Shacklebolt and Lupin's requests all the same. He knew Charlie was Tonks’ age – and noticed they looked rather friendly too – with Bill being a few years his senior. It was Bill that he was most wary of, for the scars on the man’s face were Greyback’s work, a souvenir from when the Death Eaters had infiltrated Hogwarts castle, no thanks to Draco of course. It meant nothing that Draco hadn't known the werewolf would be in attendance that night; he'd made it possible, all the same.

During the meeting the two Weasley sons had paid barely any attention to Draco despite their family’s shared history and their mother’s outburst, and also despite their role in him regaining his wand. Charlie’s bright blue eyes had flicked across the table to him a few times over the night, his expression contemplative, while Bill had nodded impassively at him upon his arrival at Almach Cottage.

It was because of these few small things that Draco had established Bill and Charlie as his favourite Weasleys through and through.

“They seemed alright,” he allowed.

“The dragon tamer – Charlie right? He seemed close with Tonks, huh? Maybe… maybe since they know about you and your wand they’d be willing to give us some tips for training sometime?”

“Hmm.”

“I think we’d have to get on their good side first though,” Theo mused, “maybe we can speak to Tonks about it, see what her thoughts are.”

Draco nodded pensively.

He knew he could only gain rather limited conclusions from this initial meeting, especially since he’d not spoken to anyone directly. Even so, he clung to the budding prospect that maybe there were more people willing to allow him to carve out a different future for himself than he’d previously thought, and a small seed of hope planted itself in his belly.

He sincerely hoped he was right.

 

 

 

He was awoken by a firm hand shaking his shoulder.

“Oi Malfoy, put on warm clothing and boots. We’re going on an adventure.”

Draco peered up blearily to see Theo looming over him, a dark knitted cap set on top of his head. He groaned. “I beg your pardon?”

His friend beamed, a rare and unselfconscious picture of delight. “You, me, adventure. Get out of bed so we can go!” And with that, Theo spun on his heel and strode from the room.

_Is it even dawn yet?_ Draco wondered as he threw himself out of bed and scrambled toward the hall.

“You mean we’re going outside?” he called to the retreating figure as he leaned out his bedroom doorway.

“We’re going outside!”

“Sweet Salazar,” Draco murmured, his lips stretching into a grin as he moved to find something he could transfigure into a coat, “it’s about fucking time.”

When he arrived for breakfast he was surprised to see Charlie Weasley formed part of the ensemble at the dining table that morning. The tanned redhead seemed quite at home, leaning back slightly in his chair with and grinning as he listened to Tonks’ chatter.

Although the sight of _any_ Weasley at the dining table would serve as a rather unpleasant start to the morning, Draco was glad it was this particular Weasley  in attendance. While both Bill and Charlie’s attitudes towards him at the Order meeting had seemed promising, Draco wasn’t exactly prepared to speak with the eldest one-on-one just yet. Time around Death Eaters had proven that looks could be deceiving, and just because Bill hadn’t seemed enraged by Draco’s presence didn’t mean the feeling hadn’t flared up on the inside.

Perhaps – if he was careful about it – he’d be able to gain a rapport with Charlie and things would continue from there.

Determined not to fuck up, Draco politely extended a hand to the redhead. “Good morning, Mr Weasley. We’ve not been properly introduced. Draco Malfoy.”

His expression remained resolutely placid as his eyes flicked to Tonks, who was chewing on her lip as she fought to keep a straight face.

_Just because_ you _don’t have manners_ , he thought snidely.

Charlie leaned over the table, grasping his hand in a tight grip. “Well, there’s hardly a need for you to introduce yourself to _me_ , Malfoy,” he said, fixing Draco with a surprisingly friendly smile. “Call me Charlie.”

“And Draco, please.”

“Looking forward to stretching your legs today, Draco?” Andromeda asked, carrying a platter of pancakes to the table followed by Theo with a tray bearing an assortment of fruit and toppings.

Draco nodded, warily eyeing Charlie a moment. “Yes, I believe so. What’s the occasion?”

“Dromeda wants us to gather some potions ingredients,” Theo piped up as he settled in beside the blonde.

According to Andromeda, there were a number of useful plants and creatures which could be found in the house’s surrounds and, instead of doing the chore herself, she was leaving it to them.

“It’s getting difficult to venture out to the apothecary,” his aunt explained, “what with…”

Draco eyed her with a frown, waiting for her continue.

Andromeda sighed, running a hand through her hair. “There’s not really an apothecary _to_ venture out to anymore,” she admitted, “so we need to make use of our alternatives. We’re lucky to be out here, at least.”

Draco wondered whether today they’d actually learn where ‘out here’ was.

He noticed Theo’s eyes flicking continually to Charlie when the redhead wasn’t looking, and wondered afresh just what the dragon tamer was doing at Almach Cottage at this time of morning and on this particular day. Surely he wasn’t rooming here – Mother Weasley would hardly allow such a thing, surely. Were he and Tonks involved?

Knowing Theo wasn’t about to ask, Draco said, “So… Charlie, are you here on Order business?” His hand moved unconsciously to his pocket, index finger stroking the length of hawthorn.

Charlie exchanged a quick glance with Andromeda before answering. “I’m here for warding, actually.”

Draco frowned. “Oh?”

“It’s a big part of my job in Romania,” the older man explained. “Not my profession, per se, but I’ve picked up some skills over time from containing dragons. I made the adjustments to Dromeda’s recently, in fact – the ones concerning the wandless blocks.”

“They’re still blocked,” Draco said stiffly, though he yielded at Andromeda’s sharp expression, “but… I’m grateful all the same. Thank you.”

Charlie let out a light snort then bent his head over his pancakes.

“Right,” said Andromeda, “Theo, Draco, we need to talk about how this is going to be done. Charlie is going to create a temporary break in the wards so that the two of you can pass through.”

“Is that how it normally happens?” Theo asked curiously.

“No, not normally,” Charlie admitted. “Not with the type of wards currently around this property. There are many different types of wards of course, each serving different purposes. Almach Cottage’s wards are intended to be impenetrable, with no exceptions. If it were anyone else crossing to the outside, we wouldn't need to alter the wards at all – they’d be using the Floo instead and then Portkeying. However…”

“However, I’m not trusted with the Floo yet,” Draco stated for him, though he managed to say so without resentment.

“Right,” Charlie acknowledged, and Draco was pleased to note that his tone held neither sympathy nor reproach. “So what I’ll do is temporarily reweave the spellwork in a certain section along the perimeter and re-key it so that that part responds to your magical signatures. I’ll be here until you return. When you’re back inside, I’ll turn them back to normal.”

It was not necessary to ask why the wards needed to be reset if the expedition went without issue.

“Is it a rather strenuous task for you?” Theo asked.

Charlie smiled cheerfully. “Little bit, but nothing I can’t handle. It’s all good practice if I decide to retire from my current line of work.”

_Oh to be as carefree as Charlie Weasley,_ Draco thought. _However, I bet he’s truly terrifying when he’s angry._

After another fifteen minutes of going over the particulars – their inventory, what magic they could and couldn’t do, how they would handle an emergency, what to be wary of along the way – they were ready to go.

“Please don’t get lost,” Tonks urged them, “you know how lousy I am at tracking, even after all this time.”

It was rather surprising to realise just how much he was looking forward to the excursion. In a normal situation where his movements weren't restricted, Draco would have simply considered the task as another chore. But in this situation, it was his first glimpse of the outside world in months. Beyond being an opportunity to prove himself, it was a chance to see just what actually lay beyond the boundaries of Almach Cottage.

The view outside his bedroom window had given him a glimpse of endless expanses of paddocks, but those rolling fields of green had turned out to be a falsity. Instead, Draco found that their garden was surrounded by forest-covered hills and patches of flourishing wildflowers.

“A bit unexpected,” Theo commented from beside him.

“Yeah.”

They stepped away from Almach Cottage’s perimeter, and Draco noticed the drop in temperature almost immediately as the frosty air hit them.

“I forgot what normal weather feels like,” he admitted, casting a Warming Charm over himself and fluffing his scarf.

“We've been spoiled, I suppose. It’s been quite a while since we’ve been in the outside world,” Theo agreed with a smile as he pulled his own scarf up around his chin. “It’s good to see it’s still intact.”

“Indeed.” Draco read through the list of potion ingredients. “Alright, here are the things on the list: amethyst deceivers, bark (yew tree), bellflowers, bluebells, dandelion roots, parasol mushrooms, red damselflies, stag beetles and white admiral butterflies. You know, Longbottom could probably tell us where we are if he were to look on this list,”

“Probably,” Theo smiled, peering over Draco’s shoulder. “Ah, there’s illustrations too. That’s good.”

Draco procured another sheet of paper from Andromeda’s satchel, on which he found a rough guide for their expedition. “Aha. This’ll help too.”

“A mud map,” Theo approved, “Well that makes our lives significantly easier.”

Draco gazed from the map to the hills, raising a hand to shield his eyes against the sun. “That way, do you think?”

“Why not,” Theo replied amiably, “I’m happy to take my time, so long as we don’t get lost.”

Theo turned and cast the charm for them to keep track of their journey. It was one Draco had located within Tonks’s book on tracking charms, and had been approved by the Auror herself, but it was one he was unable to manage with his magical restrictions in place. What lay behind them didn’t look like a house or even a property at all: it was simply a marshy thicket marked by a large fallen oak, likely one of many similar landforms in their vicinity.

For the next half-hour they simply meandered, enjoying their first taste of freedom in months as they crossed low-rising hills and fields blanketed with emerging wildflowers. Some of the land reminded Draco of the Wiltshire countryside, but he doubted they would be so close to the manor. Regardless, the scenery led to reminiscence of occasional daytrips from long ago, of adventures alongside a much younger Theo and the twilight of his childhood. From the look on his face, it seemed Theo was likely recalling such times too. Neither of them voiced these thoughts aloud, however.

When they reached a copse of trees they stopped, resting Andromeda’s satchel against a tree. Theo poured them mugs of hot chocolate before they settled on their knees to scrounge through the dirt and foliage.

“I feel utterly plebeian, Theo,” Draco whinged as he shuffled forward to search a different spot for wayward stag beetles, "My knees are getting muddy."

“This is more a job for your elves, hmm?” Theo mocked playfully.

“Pah, not Malfoy elves,” Draco joked back. “You know, to tell the truth, this isn’t the worst day I’ve had.”

“Definitely not,” the other Slytherin agreed. “Outside in the air and the sunshine –”

“And the cold,” added Draco.

“And the cold!” Theo sat back on his haunches and reached for his hot chocolate, sipping then letting out a sigh of appreciation.

Even though he spent plenty of time outside at Almach Cottage, it was only here in the vastness of… wherever… that, for the first time in a while, Draco's thoughts wandered back to the gardens of his childhood home. Even though his first thoughts had been of Wiltshire itself, and even though the natural disorder of this landscape shared little in common with the meticulousness of the Malfoys’ grounds, it seemed to speak the same tongue, one of magic and mystery, of secrets and silences and songs. His chest ached as he thought of his mother and wondered what she was doing with her days now that her gardens could only flourish in her memories.

_Narcissi grow in the spring_ , Draco reminded himself as they began to wander once more. He decided he’d collect a bouquet’s worth if they happened to stumble upon them.

While Draco had been permitted to take his wand along on their outing, even in the outside world his magic remained restricted. Subsequently, he was reduced to collecting the still bodies of damselflies from the ground as Theo cast neatly-aimed Full Body-Bind Curses at the ones in the air, and using a knife when stripping layers of bark from the yew trees. But to his surprise, he found it didn’t bother him as much as he would have expected. Sometimes the fruits of a hunt upon hands and knees was more satisfying than the more straightforward _accio_. When they came across a clearing dotted with amethyst deceivers, the mushrooms like purple jewels in their ethereal expanse, Draco discovered a certain enjoyment which came with digging fungi out of the earth. It was here that he grew tired of repeatedly casting cleaning charms upon himself and made peace with his grimy fingers and the dirt trapped beneath his nails.

By early afternoon they’d removed their Warming Charms, along with their top layer of clothing. Draco allowed himself to roll his sleeves halfway up his arm. His forearm wasn’t completely exposed, but his skin was bared enough that the serpent’s head could be caressed by the spring air. He noticed Theo looking at the Mark from the corner of his eye.

“I can roll it back down if it disturbs you,” Draco said somewhat sullenly.

Theo frowned lightly. “Why? My father had one; it’s not like I haven’t seen it before.”

“Sure, but not mine,” Draco murmured, his fingers aching to pull his sleeve down.

The sandy-haired boy sighed. “You know, one day the Mark will just be another piece of history.”

“Your words are strung with romantic naivety, Theodore,” Draco told him solemnly. “It will _always_ mean what it means.”

“And what does it mean to you?”

_Slavery_. _Failure_. _Regret_. _Ignorance_.

He didn’t reply for some time but those cerulean eyes never left him.

“Not what it used to,” he said finally, and they left it at that.

It was nearing sundown when the two of them finished retracing their steps to Almach Cottage, most of their inventory complete and a bunch of wild daffodils in Draco’s hand.

As they stepped through the wards and onto Andromeda’s tree-lined drive, Theo looked up and said, “Oh, shit.”

Draco looked up too. A falcon had flown through the wards with them and was careening towards the house.

“I don’t think that’s just a bird,” Draco said in a low voice.

“Sentry?”

Draco nodded and the two of them picked up speed.

 

 

 

“You had us followed?” Draco demanded of Andromeda and Tonks.

Bill Weasley, apparent Animagus, had now joined the cluster of people around Andromeda’s dining table. He sat next to his younger brother, and while the family resemblance was obvious, there were stark differences between the two of them: while Charlie was tanned and muscular, Bill was lean and lithe, his significantly paler skin making his facial scars stand out all the more severely. Unnerved, Draco tried his best to avoid eye contact with the Weasley who he’d arguably caused the most suffering.

Tonks stared levelly at him. “You really think we’d just let you wander off into unknown countryside for the first time unattended? That we’d just sit here and twiddle our thumbs and _hope_ we weren’t wrong to trust the two of you?” She shot an apologetic look at Theo, who gave a small shrug in return.

Draco’s eyes swivelled to his aunt. “I assume it was your idea?” he said derisively.

“Mine actually,” Tonks asserted, regaining his attention.

“So this was a test to see you could trust us?” Draco asked stiffly.

“In addition to that, there were a number of reasons that I came with you today,” Bill spoke up, taking a sip of his firewhisky. “My Animagus form gives me the advantage of being able to scout the surrounding area. If there were Snatchers or other threats nearby, I’d have had the advantage of spotting them before you. If either – or both of you – were in danger or hurt, I was there to send word back to the others. Can either of you produce a corporeal Patronus?”

“I can’t,” said Theo, and Draco shook his head grudgingly, his eyes still averted.

“Well, I can. They can be used to send messages, you know,” the elder Weasley explained. “Producing a corporeal Patronus is no easy thing… but it’d be worth the two of you practicing the charm.”

“Thank you,” said Theo quietly.

“Welcome,” Bill replied, fixing the sandy-haired Slytherin with an easy smile.

From the corner of his eye, Draco saw Bill’s gaze return to him, near unblinking. He swallowed and, summoning a sliver of courage, made eye contact with the redhead. As the conversation continued around them, the two stared at each other in silence for a long while – the elder’s expression grave, the younger penitent.

He fell asleep with his eyes on the vase of daffodils on top of his tallboy drawers, his dreams a muddle of towers and claws and scars.

 

 

 

“I was thinking about the Easter break,” Theo said a few days later.

The two of them were sitting in the living room practicing facial transfiguration.

Draco’s gaze drifted from his reflection and the Severus-like nose which he’d created for himself. He placed the hand mirror and his wand on the coffee table. “What about it?”

Theo’s eyes – disconcertingly amber –  met his, and the boy burst into laughter. “Oh Merlin, your nose!”

Draco grinned back. “Ah yes. Ten points to Slytherin for your perspicacious observation, Mr Nott. Now, what about Easter break?”

The other boy sobered. “It’s coming up in a few weeks. It’ll be like Christmas – people going home and not coming back. And some of them… we’ll never know what happened to some of them, whether they took the Mark, or went into hiding, or moved away, or…” Theo trailed off and the two of them gazed at each other gravely.

Draco returned his nose to its correct proportions with a murmured _finite_. “We’re those people too you know – who’ve disappeared into thin air. But you’re right…”

How long could families like the Parkinsons and the Greengrasses and the Zabinis distance themselves from the Dark Lord? When would neutrality become a punishable stance? And when would the contributions of families who provided more elusive forms of support – such as through monetary or political means – be deemed insufficient?

“They let us cross the wards,” Theo said, “and we proved ourselves then. Maybe…”

Draco blinked. “Are you suggesting _we_ reach out to them? Are you mad, Theo?”

“Perhaps it’s just a remote possibility that they’d let us,” Theo acknowledged, “but who else could do this _but_ us? Tell me, would you have made the same choices if someone had reached out to you and given you a different option?”

_“I can help you, Draco.”_

_“No, you can’t. Nobody can. He told me to do it or he’ll kill me. I’ve got no choice.”_

_“Come over to the right side, Draco, and we can hide you more completely than you can possibly imagine…”_

If that conversation had only occurred sooner, just how different would things have been now? Would he still have been there at the top of the Astronomy Tower that night, desperate and petrified, trying to summon bravado and rage so he could successfully kill the one man his lord feared?

“What do you think, Draco?” Theo asked softly.

And, to his surprise, Draco found himself saying, “We’ll talk to Andromeda in the morning, okay?”

The other Slytherin responded with a nod and a small smile, then picked up his own mirror once more, leaving Draco to wonder at his friend’s capacity to feel so much compassion for the people who had given him so little.

**_Who Apparated you away?_ **

**_Dobby the house elf. You don’t normally send messages this late. Something on your mind, Draco?_ **

**_The notions of good and evil. Absolution and condemnation. The past, the present, the future._ **

**_That’s rather deep. Having trouble sleeping then, I’m guessing? I think about those things a lot too. Hard not to when you’re Harry Potter, you know._ **

**_Simpler for you. In the world’s eyes, you’re pure as the driven snow. Harry Potter, he who can do no wrong._ **

**_I beg to differ, Malfoy, and there’s plenty of Daily Prophet back-issues to prove it._ **

**_What will the Prophet say of us when this is all over?_ **

**_I’d like to say we make our own destiny, but when it comes to the Prophet it’s pretty much out of our hands. Best not to think about it – that’s my advice._ **

**_I’m trying to be better. You’d be pleased._ **

**_You’ve made some terrible choices, Draco, but you do have the potential to be a good person. I’ve seen a tiny, tiny glimpse of it once or twice._ **

**_You probably weren’t wearing your glasses at the time. And terrible choices? That’s a bit rich coming from the Gryffindor._ **

Before the other boy could reply, Draco tapped the coin once more.

**_Thanks, Harry._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've used a bit of artistic license (such as making Bill an Animagus). However, much of the rest remains the same: he's not a werewolf; while Bill is permanently disfigured by the incident at the Astronomy Tower, he is not turned (though his personality does suffer an increase in lycanthropic traits).


	16. Duabus Sororibus

Remus Lupin set down his mug of coffee to run both hands through his pepper-streaked hair. “You want to make contact with your house mates?” he said in a weary summary of the five-minute proposal Draco and Theo had just concluded.

The two young Slytherins sat on the couch facing him and Kingsley, Andromeda in an armchair to Draco’s right. She sipped her coffee quietly, watching the interchange from beneath her lashes. While she was there for support, to serve as the scheme’s guarantor, ultimately this was Draco and Theo’s bid. 

Theo nodded, his jaw tight in his attempt to maintain conviction. “Some of them,” the sandy-haired boy confirmed. “Just the sixth and seventh years at first, and only the ones we think might be open to listening to us.”

“A small number.” Draco added helpfully.

“And you, you what, wish to recruit them?” Remus queried, mouth set in a grim line.

Draco fought the urge to sigh; they’d already gone through this, in his opinion. “Not necessarily,” he admitted. “Initially, we want to offer them sanctuary.” He glanced to Andromeda for support. “A place here, at Almach Cottage. There’s plenty of room.”

The man’s amber eyes swept over Theo and Draco in acknowledgement, and then Andromeda, who raised her mug to her lips once more. Leaning back in his seat, he and his co-commander regarded each other. Kingsley Shacklebolt’s expression remained pensive throughout the exchange, though his lip tightened somewhat as the two men appeared to communicate wordlessly. After some moments, Kingsley rocked forward to level a gaze at Andromeda, scepticism clear in his dark eyes.

“And I suppose you support this idea of theirs, Dromeda?” Kingsley asked. “I’m assuming as much, otherwise we wouldn’t be sitting in your living room enjoying your delightful lemon squares.” The final statement seemed to be an attempt to ease tension, the words punctuated with a quirk of the lips as the man plucked one from the coffee table. He took an appreciative bite, as if for emphasis.

The woman inclined her head and flashed him a congenial smile. “Well, Kingsley, I’m glad that you’re enjoying them.” Her smile faded as she glanced at Draco and Theo. “And – you’re right – I do support their idea. I must say it took me some time to warm to it – there are, obviously, a great number of risks involved. However, I do feel their point is valid. Hogwarts isn’t the safe haven it once was, not for _anyone_. The students Theo and Draco wish to seek out are in a precarious position, and _someone_ should be offering them a way out from under the thumb of Snape and those wretched Carrow siblings, some pathway which doesn’t lead to their arrest, servitude, torture or death.”

“There are a great many students at risk,” Remus interjected. “And there are students whose positions can be ascertained more certainly –”

“Than the Slytherins, you mean?” Draco asked coolly.

Remus’s brow furrowed. “Well –”

Draco interrupted before the man could continue. “If that’s honestly what you’re about to say, then you’ve missed our point entirely. There are people already in the school – Longbottom, Lovegood, Weasley, others – who are intervening already, who can hide them away in the Room if need be. But none of them are going to approach the Slytherins and offer _them_ sanctuary.”

Beside him, Theo nodded in agreement. “And even if they did, even if Neville was to go and offer our old dorm mates a space in the Room of Requirement… it just wouldn’t work. Even if they don’t support You Know Who, the other houses aren’t willing to trust the Slytherins, not when so many have betrayed the school.” Draco stiffened. “Believe me, I know. Otherwise… I’d have stayed hidden at Hogwarts rather than coming here.”

Though Draco kept his expression neutral, this was a part of Theo’s story that he had heard little about. While Theo had talked about winning Neville’s trust and friendship, he hadn’t really spoken about his interactions with other students. A familiar surge of protectiveness threatened to flare up in him but he quickly tucked it away to deal with later.

“How can you know that these students are worth reaching out to?” Remus asked.

“Well, we can’t know for sure,” Theo said, frowning lightly and looking as if he was being asked a trick question.

“Slytherins aren’t Gryffindors,” Draco said archly. “They’ve got the sense to keep any… _alternative_ opinions to themselves. I know it’s a foreign concept with you lot.”

Kingsley raised his eyebrows. “There’s no need to patronise, Mr Malfoy.”

Andromeda set down her mug and leaned forward, eyes bright. “Surely you can remember what it was like when you were a student, Kingsley, those days growing up during the last war? How much dissent did you hear down in those dungeons when _He_ was being openly revered by his brigade of pre-initiates? How many dared to speak against them?”

Draco frowned at the insinuation, watching as the Auror’s lips thinned and he gave a small nod of recognition. Kingsley Shacklebolt was a Slytherin?

Remus’s eyes shifted away from Andromeda and Kingsley to regard Draco and Theo. “Regardless of what’s decided, this is all a significant risk,” he said. “This task doesn’t need to fall on either of your shoulders.”

Draco shook his head. “Who would you suggest? This couldn’t be managed by ‘someone else’. Why would our housemates listen to the words of a stranger when they can barely trust each other?” He exchanged a look with Theo. “Honestly, I don’t even know if they’d trust _us_ , but there’s no better option.”

“I spent seven years there.” Theo’s words were quiet but caused the group to fall silent at once. His eyes were on Remus, pleading the older Gryffindor to understand. “And eighteen years in my father’s house. I won’t say I was Sorted wrong – I don’t believe that for a second. But… but there’s a dominant ideology in Slytherin that has spread, sunk in its roots and held out over however many generations. It’s so strong that it’s become seen as a characteristic, but in actuality it’s just a correlation. Blood-purity, superiority, tradition… disdain for those seen as not _magical_ enough. It’s not in everyone, but it’s so _present_ , so pervasive and overwhelming that it feels like it _is_ , because there’s no one speaking against it, is there? So… so I learned quickly to assimilate, to blend in and keep quiet, to smile and laugh at the right times, to keep my differences in opinion to myself. Perhaps I’m not courageous,” his eyes flicked in Remus’s direction, “but I _survived_ , I went unnoticed. And the difference between me and… whoever else… is that I was lucky enough to meet the right person and get out before my father managed to whisk me off to be Marked. But, if I hadn’t been so lucky, would I have said no? Would I have refused to take the Mark?”

“You don’t refuse the Mark.” Draco told the group in a low voice, and Theo nodded in agreement.

“I can’t be the only one,” the sandy-haired boy said, “and I don’t want to wait and _hope_ that You Know Who doesn’t decide to seek out new initiates. I don’t want to simply hope that the families who are surviving by traversing the fringes of his circles don’t have their support called into question.”

For a long time, the group was silent. Draco quietly marvelled at his friend’s tenacity, and at how different the paths which had led them to this point truly were. There were so many similarities between their circumstances, but they’d each responded so _differently_. Beside him, Theo stared resolutely at his tightly clenched hands, teeth biting down on his lower lip. He was shaking. Draco leaned forward, touching his fingers to his friend’s elbow. Theo jumped slightly then stilled, glancing at Draco from the corner of his eye, pale and anxious but also thankful for the small show of support.

It was Kingsley who finally spoke. “I don’t – I don’t think I have the words, Theo… not to sufficiently express…” He cleared his throat. “You’re all so very young to have gone through so much and we – we regret that there hasn’t been enough done to prevent it.”

“Courage comes in many forms, not just the brazen and unapologetically Gryffindor way that’s most lauded in our world.” Remus said, leaning forward to touch Theo’s knee lightly. “We can both see how… how _important_ this cause is to you. To both of you,” he amended, eyes meeting Draco’s. “But…”

“But,” Kingsley took over, “be that as it may, the committee will still need to –”

“Look; pardon my language, if you will,” Draco said evenly. “But fuck bureaucracy. Fuck committees and fuck your pseudo-democratic voting system. There’s no point in it, not in this situation. You already _know_ what the outcome will be if you go down that path, Kingsley. It’s the two of you who need to make the decision in this instance.”

The dark-skinned Auror raised his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“I agree with Draco.” Theo said, his voice close to a whisper.

Kingsley sighed, looking uncomfortable as he shifted in his seat. “The members of the committee were selected to consider the best-interests of the Order,” he told them. “Their culpability has been well-demonstrated. If they were to unanimously oppose this idea of yours, it would likely be for good reason.”

“I don’t think you _really_ believe that,” Draco returned. “Why else would I be sitting here with my wand in my pocket, hmm?

“Exactly,” Theo agreed, his eyes focused on Draco as if to ground himself. “Maybe if this idea was Neville’s or Harry’s or anyone else’s… but it’s ours. They don’t trust us.”

“If this idea was Neville’s or Harry’s, they’d be similarly discouraged,” Remus corrected him. “But admittedly, it’d be the dangers involved which would be of most concern to the committee, not the possible nature of their motivations.”

“And admittedly, they likely wouldn’t have deigned to share the idea with you,” Draco jibed half-heartedly. “You would have found out after the fact.”

Remus chuckled lowly, Kingsley’s lips curling in a wry smile.

“Well, let’s just forget all that a moment; how do the two of you feel?” Andromeda asked the two commanders.

“I believe our concerns are warranted,” Kingsley returned, and Remus nodded in agreement. “There are reasons that Mr Longbottom and his peers are still situated at Hogwarts rather than in a house such as this. There are reasons why the Order is yet to attempt reclaiming the school. The idea of the two of you – or anyone, for that matter – travelling to the Slytherin dungeons unnoticed –”

“Who said anything about going to Hogwarts?” Draco interrupted.

Kingsley frowned. “Was that not what you were intending?”

“The Easter break is approaching,” Theo said. “Some students will still return home even if it’s unadvised. We wanted to propose visiting our peers at their homes during this time. The one’s we know are from neutral families, of course,” he emphasised.

“And if you’re successful, you intend them to room here?” Remus asked, his tone somewhat dubious. “I’m not sure any of the other share houses will be able to spare the space.” The excuse was a flimsy attempt to cover up the truth. It wasn’t the _lack_ of space – it was the _willingness_ to accommodate a politically-questionable Slytherin which would be the main issue.

“The house’s interior adjusts to suit the number of occupants,” Andromeda reminded the two Order commanders. “But even without that particular characteristic, we’re hardly overcrowded at this moment.”

“We’ve outlined a proposal,” Draco spoke up, extending a scroll of parchment to Kingsley. “I encourage the both of you to look it over before you make your final decision.”

Kingsley took the scroll but didn’t move to unroll it. “We’ll read through your proposal,” he conceded, “but you know that we can make no guarantees. No matter how passionately any of us feel –” He regarded Theo, whose cheeks flushed slightly at the attention, “–Some things just cannot be done.”

“We appreciate that,” Draco responded.

“We understand you feeling concerned for your friends,” Remus told them, his voice low and gentle, “but we must always put the best interests of the Order first.”

“We know,” Theo mumbled.

When the lemon squares and coffee were depleted, Andromeda guided the two commanders to the Floo in her room. When she returned to the living room some twenty minutes later, she looked tired, her lip a thin, grim line.

“They’re concerned that this will impact on my own standing,” she said, noticing their questioning looks. “Nymphadora’s too.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous,” Draco fumed, though from the look on Theo’s face, he didn’t seem to agree.

“Ultimately, I’m the one liable if any… complications were to arise. They would become my charges. I’d be their guardian as well as yours; it doesn’t matter who is and isn’t of age,” she said, cutting off Draco, who was preparing to object, “you’re still school students.”

Draco sneered. “Ridiculous.”

“How do _you_ feel about all of this, Dromeda?” Theo asked softly.

She seemed to be take time to collect her thoughts, pushing her hair behind her ears and stacking the plates and saucers by hand before replying. “Everyone has their own ideas about how best to win this war,” she told them, “along with what kind of world we should be striving to create once all of this over. If you ask me, while there are so many wrongs which need to be righted, it’s a great oversight to simply allow the wellbeing of a group of students to be sacrificed simply because they’re deemed politically ‘unreachable’. That’s never been the world I’ve wanted.”

“I know we can’t reach everyone,” Theo said, “but maybe we can reach _some_. Even if it’s only one or two people, that’s one or two people with the option of a way out.”

“And maybe that’s one or two people who’ll not be forced to make choices they regret,” Draco added, his hand unconsciously reaching to tug down his left sleeve.

“Well,” said Andromeda, “No matter what Remus and Kingsley end up deciding, you can at least be proud of the choices you are making now. Both of you.”

Draco glanced up at his aunt. “I don’t think this is enough to redeem my less than stellar history,” he said drily. “The rest of the Order won’t be singing our praises when they hear what we’re up to. I could kill the Dark Lord myself and it wouldn’t be good enough.”

Andromeda smiled somewhat sadly as she floated the dishes away. She didn’t attempt to disagree.

 

 

 

**_Where did we first meet? Who were you with?_ **

**_Technically it was at Malkin’s during robe-fitting though you didn’t know it was me till we were on the Express. I was alone at the time but Hagrid had come to Diagon with me._ **

**_I still haven’t grasped why he was given that responsibility over a proper teacher._ **

**_Don’t be a git; Hagrid is a proper teacher. And he was chosen for the job because Dumbledore trusted him._ **

**_Regardless of our differing opinions, it’s a fact that he was merely the gamekeeper then. Anyway, seems like Dumbledore trusted other people too, like McGonagall and Severus, so why didn’t one of those take you instead? Imagine how different things might have been if it had been Severus who’d introduced you to the wizarding world. Maybe you’d have ended up in Slytherin._ **

**_He was wrong to trust Severus._ **

Draco’s stomach lurched as the words on the coin morphed to show Harry’s reply, the words seeming stiff and vehement in print.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered at his own tactlessness as continued to stare at the words, wondering how to respond.

**_That was thoughtless of me. I apologise._ **

No reply came that night.

 

 

 

_He felt the prickling discomfort which came with the sense of being watched._

_Draco lowered his Arithmancy textbook to glare at the figure in the doorway. “Lost, Potter? This isn’t the lion’s den, you know. Haven’t you worked out the difference between up and down yet?”_

_Harry’s lips curved into a smirk and he took a step into the room._

_“Oi, Scarhead!” Draco called. “Are you daft, Potter? Leave! I don’t know how you managed to get in here, but you will turn around and fuck off this instant before I hex your Golden arse out of here; do you understand?”_

_The raven-haired boy continued to disregard the barrage of insults, wordlessly moving down the dormitory aisle to approach Draco’s bed, the one at the very back of the room. As he moved slowly forward his fingers pulled deftly at the knot in his school tie, his green eyes continuing to stare, intense in their brightness. There was a twin set of clunks as the school shoes were toed off, quickly joined by their accompanying socks._

_Draco, realising he’d been gaping like a moron, closed his mouth abruptly, any further slurs dissolving on his tongue._

_“What are you doing?” he whispered uneasily. “What are you-”_

_The scarlet strip of material slid from Harry’s fingers, floating carelessly to the dormitory floor. Harry proceeded to nimbly unbutton his shirt next, hands moving methodically down his torso to reveal the toned expanse of his chest and stomach._

_Entranced by the figure advancing toward him, Draco snapped his book closed, casting it aside and angling his body back as the Gryffindor climbed smoothly onto the bed. Draco slid spread his legs apart, watching as Harry knelt in the gap between them, green eyes smouldering as he peeled his school shirt from his shoulders._

_Harry leaned towards him, planting his hands on either side of Draco’s body. Draco reached out, running his hands over Harry’s developed biceps and forearms, then lower, smoothing over narrowed hips until he reached the curves of his arse. Squeezing tight, trouser-covered cheeks, he used his grip on them to draw the Gryffindor down and forward._

_Perfect pink lips descended down onto his, and for a few delightful minutes, their mouths engaged in a tantalising union of tongues and teeth, roaming hands providing a harmonious accompaniment to their attentions._

_Extracting himself from the kiss, the Gryffindor rocked back to reposition himself in a kneel. Pink-cheeked, he peered down at Draco, head cocked to the side._

_“I came here to show you something,” Harry said softly, his previously coquettish display evaporated into shyness._

_Draco raised an expectant eyebrow. “Well, go on then.”_

_Making himself comfortable against the head of his bed, he folded his hands in his lap, watching as Harry’s fingers moved to the fastenings of his trousers. He popped the buttons and lowered the zip then rose on his knees, pulling the trousers down his thighs to reveal a tight pair of pants, crimson and Gryffindor themed. He shuffled to and fro to rid himself of the vestiges of his school uniform, kicking the black bottoms away. Reduced to only his underwear, his hands moved to the waistband, peeling them down with tantalising slowness to final expose the proudly erect shaft Draco had touched but never seen._

_“What do you think?” Harry whispered, biting his lip as he glanced down at his member then back up at Draco._

_Draco licked his lip, staring down at the sight before him. “I… I-”_

_“Dragon?”_

_Draco lifted his head and peered over Harry’s shoulder._

_“Yes, Mother?” he asked placidly._

_Narcissa stood in the centre of the dormitory. She was in mourning attire, her slender hands clad in little black lacy gloves and clasped before her._

_He and his mother gazed across the room at each other, both of them ignoring Harry’s presence. Likewise, the Gryffindor paid no heed to the interruption, shuffling forward on the bed to writhe and grind his groin against Draco. Draco remained still, his eyes locked on Narcissa’s._

_“The Dark Lord has summoned you, Dragon. He’s inquiring about your progress in your mission.”_

_Draco gasped as one of Harry’s thrusts hit home. “Tell him the mission’s going wonderfully,” he said breathily. “And then tell him to go fuck himself.”_

_Mouth parting in shock, his mother shuffled backwards, fading into nothingness as Draco returned his attention to the raven-haired man who’d invaded his bed and his vision became consumed by Harry, Harry, Harry._

When Draco awoke to a damp spot in his bed and a cold coin in his hand, he felt more alone than he had in months.

 

 

 

“McGonagall’s given me the list of students who’re going home for the holidays,” Neville said, procuring a scroll of parchment from his robes. “She was a bit reluctant because I have a history of erm…” he flushed as his words trailed off.

“Go on,” Theo pressed, the corners of his lips twitching.

“Well… you remember when Sirius Black broke into Gryffindor tower a few years back?” he paused, eyeing them reluctantly. “It mightn’t have helped that I lost my sheet of parchment which had all the passwords recorded… wasn’t too hard for him to get in, after that.”

“Fucking hell, Longbottom!” Draco guffawed.

“Surprising she gave it over then,” Theo remarked, sending Draco a significant look.

 _Somehow I don’t think she_ gave _this information to you at all, Longbottom. I think you simply took what you needed. You’re finally learning._

“She’s concerned that my ‘activism’ knows no bounds and that I’ll get in trouble if I’m not careful. Suffice it to say, I didn’t tell her about yours.”

It had taken two weeks for Remus and Kingsley to make a decision regarding Draco and Theo’s proposal to offer sanctuary to their fellow Slytherins. For Draco, it had felt like months of waiting, of ruminating and self-chastising. Of wondering whether Lupin and Shacklebolt were merely taking advantage of his ambitious and desperate strategies, leading him on a dance to keep him compliant.  Of picturing Bill's unwavering gaze and words which remained unsaid between them, of that 'elephant' Harry had referred to once upon a time. Of Charlie who had _smiled_ at him, who had accepted his handshake though Draco couldn't be certain as to  _why_ he'd done this rather than spat at him or taken to him with his fists. Of trying to work out what was real and wasn't, of what could be his salvation and what might be his demise. He was used to Slytherins and their subtleties, the hidden meanings and secret motivations which underlay nearly every interaction. He couldn't make any confident guesses with these most recent encounters.

He didn't get any real answers.

When the two men had returned to Almach Cottage it had been with Tonks, Neville, Bill, Charlie and Hestia in tow. The morning had been dedicated to a lengthy symposium regarding the Order’s newest – and confidential – project, with opinions wide-ranging and abundant. Eventually all the particulars were successfully fleshed out and agreed upon, though some – namely Hestia, who of the group had had the least amount of contact with the two young Slytherins – remained somewhat hesitant as to the project’s potential for success. She watched Draco and Theo with narrowed eyes and pursed lips, as if afraid of what might happen if they were left unsupervised .

Despite it being their idea, Theo and Draco wouldn’t be working alone – that was for certain. And perhaps that was for the better, Draco had decided upon reflection, for the more support they had, the more successful the integration of their little group of outsiders would be. If integration was even possible; Draco was still tainted, still untrusted, still a threat with his dark otherness. Perhaps his housemates had accumulated less enemies and committed less sins, but this would serve as little reassurance.

Beside Neville, Theo and Draco scanned the list of Slytherin students, Andromeda watching all the while.

“Greengrasses,” Theo noted. “Daphne and Astoria – seventh and fifth year,” he added quickly, glancing at Andromeda. “Thoughts?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed contemplatively. “Unless things have changed, the Greengrasses always supported the D- You Know Who’s philosophies, but kept their distance from the man himself,” he commented.

Theo nodded. “I’ve heard the same.”

“‘Man’!” Neville scoffed under his breath. “Pah!”

“What have you seen of them at school?” Andromeda asked the Gryffindor.

Neville shrugged lightly. “Well since I’ve been staying in the Room of Requirement, it’s been awhile since I’ve attended classes. I’ve never had anything to do with the younger one but I’m in a couple of classes with Daphne – Charms and Herbology. I haven’t witnessed her do anything that would suggest she supports Hogwarts’ new regime, but then again, I haven’t seen her protest it either.”

“Then playing it safe and trying not to stand out, most likely,” Theo murmured.

Draco nodded in agreement. “Not intending to offend, Longbottom, but it’s more a Gryffindor thing to blatantly oppose the rules, so I doubt you’ll have seen any Slytherins protesting in the halls.”

Neville rolled his eyes. “Not intending to offend, Malfoy, but it’s more a Slytherin thing to support the rules too.”

“Not these Slytherins, it seems,” Theo commented, gesturing to Draco and himself.

“Nowadays, anyway.” Neville retorted, though without malice. “Draco was a proud member of the Inquisitorial Squad once upon a time, weren’t you, Malfoy?”

“Possessing a strong survival instinct and a small thirst for power doesn’t actually equate with me having even a modicum of respect for that toad, Longbottom.”

“Well –”

“Shall we get back to the subject?” Andromeda interjected, McGonagall’s scroll now in hand. “As much as I enjoy watching as you relive your petty teenage squabbles –” both Neville and Draco flushed, “– a decision should really be made and conveyed to Headquarters _today_.” She took a sip of her tea as her eyes returned to the list, then sighed. “But from what you’ve said, it doesn’t sound like there’s much to go on with these Greengrass girls.”

Theo turned to Draco. “What do you think?”

“As much as Daphne is a… you know, it’s probably worth trying,” Draco admitted grudgingly.

“What is she?” Andromeda pressed, eyebrow raised.

Theo smiled wryly at the older woman. “Let’s just say she’s decidedly less pleasant than her namesake.”

 

 

 

 

> _Hey Daph,_
> 
> _Are you missing me yet?_
> 
> _I hope things are well for you, but not so much that you’re not dying of boredom without me. I fully expect your homework to already be completed since you_ shouldn’t _have anything better to occupy your time._
> 
> _Something’s come up, so I’ll be out of contact for the rest of the break, meaning I’ll be unable to receive your reply. I suppose you’ll just have to tell me next time you see me._
> 
> _If you’re good, it could be sooner than you think._
> 
>  
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Blaise_

 

From over Draco’s shoulder, Theo wrinkled his nose. “Your letter is… gross.”

“My letter is accurate.”

“I never said it wasn’t, but – what _exactly_ is their relationship? I’ve never quite worked it out, particularly since Blaise is so… well, _Blaise_.”

“They’re not a couple,” Draco said lightly. “And as for Blaise, you know he doesn’t believe in labelling himself.”

“Well, he might as well be gay,” Theo commented, “since I doubt Daphne would be willing to share him with a girl for very long.”

“I don’t think Daphne has had any particular influence upon Blaise’s tendency to stick to casual flings,” Draco replied. “And besides, I honestly don’t think _Daph_ would be willing to share him with a man either.”

“Well, seems Blaise manages to keep himself happy either way.”

Tonks wandered into Draco’s room, her arms cradling a stack of books which Draco recognised from the bookshelves in her childhood bedroom. “You just about finished with that letter of yours, dear cousin?”

After she’d dropped the books onto the nearest surface with an audible grunt, Draco passed her the missive. “Acceptable?”

Tonks’ blue eyes – a mirror image of Theo’s that day – roamed the parchment briefly. “Well… seeing as I don’t know either of them… I’ll say yes. Theo?”

Theo shrugged noncommittally. “Unfortunately, until recently, it hasn’t been my area of expertise. You know, having friends, socialising, and so on?”

A look of sympathy flashed over Tonks’s face before she asked, “Neville gave you a sample of Zabini’s writing, didn’t he?”

Theo handed her an essay of Blaise’s that the Gryffindor claimed McGonagall had copied for him. The Slytherins were dubious, however, more of the opinion that the copying had occurred without her knowledge. “Do you think this will be good enough?”

“Yeah, looks perfect.” She smoothed it out on the table before them, positioning a quill alongside it. She pulled her wand from her arm-holster. “Alright, there’s a few stages to this. And this is – technically – _not_ legal,” she scrunched her eyes closed, appearing to be engaging in some kind of internal self-chastisement for partaking in such rule-breaking. Her eyes popped open and she glared warningly. “So, if I ever catch either of you doing something like this…” She continued to look threatening for a few more seconds before redirecting her gaze, tapping the parchment with her wand. “ _Simulo chirographum_.”

They watched as the sentences in Blaise’s essay glowed. A duplicated set of letters peeled off the page, the translucent text floating in the air before them.

“Good,” Tonks breathed. “Alright. Hopefully this works, otherwise I’ll be heading back to Remus’s library.” She tapped the floating letters. “ _Eorum manu_.” As she moved her wand away the letters trailed after it like a thread of spider’s web, following it in the direction of Draco’s letter to Daphne. “ _Mea verbis._ ”

As they watched, the string of words settled themselves over Draco’s, sinking into Draco’s neat script then melding and merging until they finally settled in perfect emulation of Blaise Zabini’s writing.

“Brilliant,” Theo whispered, as if cautious not to disturb the spellwork. “You’re _brilliant_ , Tonks.”

“No need to whisper!” she chirped, giving him a hearty smack on the back. “Alright, Draco, seal it and I’ll get an owl to make a delivery to the Greengrass residence.”

“Blaise uses the school owls,” Draco commented absently.

His cousin winked. “It’s not my first rodeo, don’t you worry.”

The two Slytherins stared at her blankly. She shook her head at them in incredulity.

“Oh, you two are hopeless! Once this war is over, you’re getting a _proper_ education.”

 

 

 

“Shame we couldn’t get the real Blaise Zabini to help us out,” Theo commented as he watched Draco gaze distastefully down at his vial of Polyjuice.

“I almost want to blame him for me having to go through this,” Draco admitted as he dropped in a pinch of short, black hair. “Fucking hell. I don’t want to know where this hair has come from… this is neither the length nor texture that I recall.”

His friend scoffed. “Draco, we all know that you’ve seen more of Blaise than you let on.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Oh, shut up; I’m trying to garner the courage to imbibe this, and you’re not helping.”

Smile fading, Theo wrinkled his nose in sympathy. “Alright. Are you ready?”

Draco exhaled. “Ready.”

Eyes closing in anticipation of the revolting taste which awaited him, Draco raised the vial to his lips.

“You couldn’t help yourself, could you?” Tonks asked drily, taking note of Draco’s changed attire as he strolled back into the dining room five minutes later.

“Well, we _are_ supposed to be coming from school,” Draco responded in Blaise’s smooth baritone. “Besides, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“Nothing you – _oh_ ,” Tonks said weakly. “Right. I guess this is another Slytherin thing?”

“No, it’s just a Draco and Blaise thing,” Theo informed her cheerfully.

Tonks shook her head. “I don’t want to know, do I?”

“No,” Theo replied. “I don’t think you do.”

They found Charlie waiting at the dining room table in much the same position as he had been the last time they’d left Almach Cottage. Once again he was there to alter the property’s wards so they could leave, rather than letting Draco and Theo use the Floo.

“Again?” Draco asked flatly as he, Theo and Tonks met the redhead at Almach Cottage’s perimeter.

“Going through the Floo would invite unwanted questions,” Tonks supplied.

“Can’t be running into people who don’t know what we’re up to,” Charlie added, following the three of them through the space in the wards. “Especially not when you look like...” He frowned lightly.

“Blaise Zabini.” Draco offered.

Charlie nodded. “Exactly. Best to do it this way than be noticed.”

Tonks cleared her throat. “Right, we’ve made up two Portkeys for today. You’ll have two hours, so remember to take more potion if you need it, Draco. Charlie and I will wait on the perimeter, by the road.”

“You’re not coming in?” asked Theo.

“We’re letting you two do this your way,” Tonks reminded them. “You’ll each take a Portkey onto the Greengrass property to use in case you run into trouble.” She grinned. “Activation’s ‘Helga’. If both of you do need to get out of there, don’t worry – the two of us are able to get home the regular way. If all goes well with the sisters, you can meet us outside and we’ll use the Portkeys to return together.”

Drack frowned. “And how exactly will you know if something’s happened and we’ve used the Portkeys?”

“Well…” Theo spoke up hesitantly, taking a few steps away from them, “ _Expecto Patronum_!”

The silvery mist swirled into the shape of a mongoose. Charlie and Tonks smiled at Theo admiringly but without surprise, while Draco stared at his friend’s Patronus open-mouthed. The sight of it made him feel sick, cold and tight-chested.

Theo could produce a Patronus, a full-fledged Patronus.

Meanwhile, Draco had made _many_ attempts in private, and his efforts hadn’t even incited the smallest thread of mist.

“Well done,” he managed to utter.

The near-bitterness of the voice which offered these congratulatory words went unremarked, and to Draco, sounded altogether wrong coming out of Blaise Zabini’s mouth.

“Theo knows how to use his Patronus to send messages,” Tonks explained, “so if you need extra… support, we can always be notified.”

“And you’re honestly trusting us to go into the Greengrass home… unsupervised?” Draco clarified.

“Thought you’d be a bit more cheerful about the idea,” his cousin teased.

“Hmm," he responded noncommitally, eyes focused on his feet.

When Draco looked back at her, he was taken aback by her expression, so starkly different from her tone of voice. Her features were etched with doubt and a weary uncertainty, rendering her older than her years. 

 

 

 

Their boots clicked against cobblestone as they made their way up to the house. Unlike Malfoy Manor, there were no gates to bypass, simply a few muggle-repelling charms which lay at the base of the Greengrass family’s curving driveway. The house was generously sized but a shack when compared to the manor, Draco noted with smugness. The Greengrass family certainly lived an affluent lifestyle, but it was nowhere near the opulence of the Malfoys.

“Stop that,” Theo chided from beside him. “I know what that look on your face means, and Blaise only smiles like _that_ when he’s talking about Hufflepuffs.”

Draco rolled his eyes as they stopped before the front doors but complied all the same, smoothing his features before he knocked.

“We’re here to see Daphne,” he told the house elf who opened the main doors in anticipation of their arrival.

“Kip will be getting Miss Greengrass, Mr Zabini, sir!” the creature squeaked, before popping away.

A second later, the doors slammed promptly in their faces.

The two boys turned to each other, perplexed.

“What now?” Theo wondered.

Draco shrugged. “I suppose we wait.”

“Perhaps it’s a security thing,” Theo mused drily.

“It’s rude, that’s what it is. Our elves at least allow the guests into the entry hall.”

“You’re just biased because you think Daphne’s a bitch.”

“Daphne _is_ a bitch.”

Theo elbowed him. “Hush! Don’t cock this up before we even get inside.”

Draco rolled Blaise’s eyes. “There’ll be no cocking of any sort if I can help it.”

Theo chortled, though fell into silence as the door opened once more.

However, it wasn’t Daphne there to greet them but her younger sister Astoria. The petite brunette stared at the two of them, eyes widened in disbelief.

“Blaise?”

“Hello Astoria,” Draco intoned, allowing Blaise’s lips to part in an impersonation of his standard flirtatious grin.

Astoria wrinkled her nose. “What’s with the formality? And –” her gaze slid to Theo and while she never finished her sentence, the question in her expression was apparent.

“I’m sure you remember Theo, right? We can explain when Daph joins us. You’ll let us in, won’t you… Tori?” The nickname felt awkward and foreign upon his tongue, even when uttered in Blaise’s tone. He’d never known Astoria well enough to feel comfortable using it.

She looked back at him again and smiled beatifically. “Of course you can come in. I’m surprised you arrived by the front door actually.”

The younger girl stepped to the side and gestured for them to enter the house. Draco stepped in with an air of confidence, followed by Theo, who murmured a quiet thank-you as he passed through the doorway.

“Well we came from school, didn’t we?” He indicated to their Slytherin robes.

“Oh – of course, that makes sense. Silly me. I forgot you didn’t go home for holidays.” Astoria blushed prettily, then with barely-disguised hesitance said, “Uh, Daph… she _does_ know you’re here; she’s just getting herself ready. I guess you’ll be going upstairs to see her?”

He smiled and shook his head. “I’m feeling charitable this morning – I’ll leave her to her own devices, just this once.” Draco had no inclination in making a fool of himself in trying to locate the quarters of his supposed best friend; he’d never set foot within the Greengrass residence in his life.

Astoria looked visibly relieved as the prospect of having to entertain Theo on her own evaporated. “Alright. Hmm, shall we take tea in the sunroom then?”

“That’d be wonderful, wouldn’t it, Theo? After you, Tori. Maybe you can give Theo the tour as we walk? You haven’t been here before, have you, Theo?”

From behind Astoria, Theo shot Draco a sly grin. “I haven’t, actually,” he replied innocently. “Your home looks lovely, Astoria.”

“Thank you, Theodore.” The fifth year’s voice was polite but detached, as if she were speaking to a stranger rather than a member of her own Hogwarts house.

They made their way across the well-lit entry hall and down a short corridor which opened up into a modestly sized sunroom. They were led to a circular table positioned near the windows, settling themselves upon white chairs cushioned in plush sage-coloured velvet.

Astoria clicked her fingers and a house elf popped into the room summarily, bowing deeply to the small party.

“How may Gilly be serving, Miss Astoria?” the small creature squeaked.

“Morning tea for four, if you please,” the younger Greengrass said smoothly, “and make sure to include Blaise’s favourites.”

“Coming in an instant, Miss Astoria!” Gilly disappeared.

Some seconds later, a tea tray arrived bearing a large floral pot with matching cups and jugs. It was accompanied by a platter of cakes, scones and biscuits and tiny bowls bearing jam and cream.

“Thank you; you’re very kind,” Theo murmured graciously as the brunette passed him the tea she had prepared him.

“We might as well start without her,” Astoria said resignedly. “You know how she is.”

“And that is why we love her,” Draco-as-Blaise responded with a wink.

Theo blinked in surprise at this deviation from standard etiquette but complied all the same, reaching for a cucumber and watercress sandwich. Draco merely raised his eyebrows at the girl’s lapse in propriety and snagged himself a shortbread biscuit.

“So… how is… how is school?” Astoria asked hesitantly.

From the corner of his eye Draco noticed Theo frown.

“Lonely,” Draco intoned morosely. “I’ve got no one to dote on, no one.”

“Idiot,” she said playfully with a roll of the eyes.

Theo took a measured sip of tea before providing his own response. “I’ve recently returned. Been rather sick over the last few months, unfortunately, so Father needed to keep me in isolation.”

“Hmm, I see.” Astoria looked vaguely uncomfortable speaking to the sandy-haired Slytherin. Whether this was due to the ambiguity of Theo’s ‘sickness’ or the Nott reputation in general, Draco couldn’t tell. “And your father is… well, now?”

“Well enough,” Theo conceded.

It was another twenty minutes before Daphne graced them with her presence.

Known by many as Slytherin’s resident Ice Princess, Daphne Greengrass’s blonde beauty was somewhat tarnished by her frosty personality. A perfectionist who displayed a perpetual air of superiority and disdain, Draco had always found her to be rather insufferable, a fact which he found highly amusing in hindsight considering his comparably supercilious behaviour during early adolescence. She was choosy in her friendships, limiting her affections to a select group of female admirers who Blaise had taken to referring to as her ‘ladies in waiting’. When Astoria had commenced her studies at Hogwarts two years after Daphne she had been assimilated into this group, in addition to a couple of her year mates. Unlike her older sister, however, Astoria was courteous and approachable.

For reasons no one could comprehend, Blaise had been able to befriend Daphne, and was the only male student who had managed to succeed. They’d been friends since first year, and although they were often suspected to be a couple, their relationship was strictly platonic. Indeed, there had never been anything romantic between the two of them – prior to more recently being courted by Hogwarts and Beauxbatons alumni, Daphne had limited her to prospects to upperclassmen.

Draco had long suspected Daphne’s persona to be a façade, a front that served to protect her… but from what? He’d never cared enough to find out, never been interested in learning more about her or pushing past her boundaries. He and Pansy had much preferred despising her from a distance. Pansy and Daphne could hardly tolerate being in the same common room together, let alone share a dormitory.

 _Asking Blaise would have been helpful_ , he thought now as she beamed at him before shooting a barely-concealed glance of distaste in Theo’s direction.

“Blaise! This is a surprise!”

“I got heartsick without you,” Draco declared, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead dramatically. “Even war couldn’t keep me away!”

Beside him, Theo let out a soft yet decidedly derisive snort.

“You idiot,” she chided. “After I got your owl, I was worried you’d do something like this. It’s dangerous to be travelling around at the moment. How did you get here?”

“Apparition,” Astoria informed her before either of them could respond.

Daphne crossed her arms over her chest, fixing him with a glare that was somewhat belied by a pleased smirk.

He dropped his lip petulantly. “Aw, didn’t you miss me, Daph? It wasn’t easy to get here, you know.”

Daphne ignored this, swinging towards Theo instead. “And why are _you_ here?” she asked coolly.

Theo’s eyes widened in surprise at being addressed in such a starkly different tone. “Well, it’s better to travel in company right now, is it not?”

“Well… yes, I suppose so. But why are _you_ his company?”

“Who else would you expect to accompany me?” Blaise asked airily. “If you hadn’t noticed, Slytherin house is being bled dry.”

“That’s true,” Astoria murmured softly.

“Well, are you going to stand there and address us from across the room all day, or are you actually going to join us?” Draco asked. “These are scrumptious little cakes.” As if to prove a point, he picked up a petit-four and popped it into his mouth.

Daphne scoffed. “Of course I will – just give me a moment. Would you help me with the zipper of my dress please, Tori?” The blonde waved a manicured hand at her back.

With a nod, the younger sister rose dutifully and crossed the room. When she got to Daphne, however, the older girl whirled her sister behind her before whipping out her wand and training it on Theo and Draco.

_Shit._

Theo’s hand crept toward the Portkey in his pocket. “Do we –”

“Not yet.” Draco muttered.

“Problem?” Draco drawled.

“Who are you?” Daphne asked in a low voice. “You’re obviously not Blaise.”

He backtracked over their conversation, trying to work out just how he’d screwed up. He thought his impersonation of Blaise had been rather fair, and from the look of surprise on Theo’s face, his friend had thought the same.

“Don’t be daffy, Da–”

“Don’t even bother,” she snapped. “You’re not Blaise, and you _will not_ insult my intelligence by protesting otherwise.”

Astoria stepped forward and murmured to her sister, who promptly adjusted her positioning to allow Astoria to train her own wand on Theo while Daphne continued to focus on Draco.

“Guess you didn’t do as good an impression as you thought,” Theo muttered under his breath.

“I’m not an enemy,” Draco said to the two witches placidly, holding his palms out before him.

“Are you Polyjuiced?”

He sighed and nodded. “Yes. It should wear off in the next half an hour. What shall you do with us until then?”

She didn’t answer him; instead, although she didn’t look to him, she spoke to Theo. “Are you Polyjuiced too?”

“No, it’s me,” Theo told her. “Though I suppose my word is hardly proof of that.”

“Hmm. Hardly proof indeed. Help me out, Tori?”

“Certainly.”

“ _Incarcerous_!” Both girls cried, ropes shooting from their wands to bind Theo and Draco in place.

Theo’s eyes flicked to him. “Seems like a good opportunity to –”

“Don't.” Draco muttered.

The sandy-haired boy sighed, his eyes rolling to the ceiling.

"Search him, would you?" Daphne asked Astoria, jerking her chin in Theo's direction.

The two girls advanced on them, removing their wands, Draco's charmed galleon and the vial of Polyjuice. Neither of them had thought to search the boys' breast pockets, where their Portkeys - twin packets of grape-flavoured bubblegum - were safely tucked away.

 _Not that we can reach them anyway. Bugger, this really hasn't worked out_ , Draco thought as he averted his eyes from the blonde girl before him and fought back the urge to headbutt her.

“How did you know I wasn’t Blaise?” he asked curiously instead.

Daphne sniffed, taking a step back. “The petit-fours. Blaise loathes them.”

He raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Really? Why?”

“He thinks they’re creepy,” Astoria said, handing Theo's wand to her older sister. “We always make sure to serve them when he visits. It’s a running joke between us.”

“Creepy?” Theo repeated dubiously, looking to Draco as if for explanation.

Draco shrugged Blaise’s shoulders. “It’s Blaise,” he answered and Theo nodded, as if Draco’s response explained everything.

Daphne assessed them with narrowed eyes. “So, are you ready to tell us the truth, or should we call the Aurors?”

“You’re not going to call the Aurors, Daphne.” Draco sighed. “We’re not stupid.”

She arched a dainty brow. “Really?” She sank into a chair and crossed her ankles neatly, Astoria joining her soon after. “Well, I’m happy to sit here and wait for this potion of yours to wear off. And then, I suppose you’ll see whether or not I’m bluffing.”

“And now we wait,” Theo sighed.

“Quiet – _both of you_ – or I’ll Crucio you,” Daphne snapped.

Draco snorted. “You need to –”

“ _Just try me_.”

 

 

 

Even without a mirror, it was interesting to watch as the effects wore off; his fingers became longer, slenderer, the mocha skin lightening to its former vanilla tones. Draco was grateful that Blaise’s feet were larger than his own; he much preferred dealing with overly roomy footwear than the concept of having to shuck his shoes because they’d become too small. His hairline tingled as the locks became his again – in fact, Draco swore he could feel single every inch of him as his body was alternately stretched and compressed, readjusting to its regular dimensions.

He smirked at the two girls standing before him, the older agitated and the younger stunned.

Astoria’s cheeks flushed prettily as she noticed Draco looking at her, her hazel eyes darting away.

The two of them had been betrothed once upon a time, not that they’d ever had much to do with each other. Astoria had shadowed him somewhat during the very early days of her Hogwarts tenure, trailing after him in a cluster of giggling pre-teens when she wasn’t busy doing Daphne’s bidding. He’d always considered her attractive, with her chocolate curls and doe eyes, but he’d never paid special attention to her. She was his finale and he had other priorities before he succumbed to fidelity – that was what he’d told himself.

He’d taken the situation for granted, of course; Astoria had been promised to him since shortly after her birth. But then Lucius had been arrested at the end of his fifth year and the arrangement between their two families had dissolved. The Greengrasses had exercised the rights they were entitled to, their precious daughter deemed too good for the son of a convicted criminal. It didn’t matter that the family indirectly supported the Dark Lord’s cause through their corresponding political sympathies; a criminal was a criminal. Draco had been insulted by the family’s fallacious portentousness, as had his parents, but at the same time he hadn’t been particularly upset since his mother made no efforts to obtain a new match. With the ongoing controversy and war on the horizon, there were more critical matters to concentrate on.

From what he knew, Astoria was now intended to a wizard from the Shafiq family, a much older man, recently widowed and of noble repute. Whether the marriage would actually eventuate was anyone’s guess.

Astoria resumed her seat at the little table while Daphne moved to stand in front of them, hands on hips. There was a dusting of freckles on her nose which Draco had never been near enough to notice before.

“Well this is unexpected. Why are _you_ here, Malfoy?” Daphne bit. “And you…”

Theo blinked up at her in surprise. “…Theo?”

“I _know_ you’re Theo,” she snapped, flapping a hand at him. “I’m not an _idiot_. I just wasn’t positive you weren’t a Polyjuiced version.”

“Oh,” he said meekly. “Well I am… Theo, that is.”

“Obviously.”

Theo’s unnerved blue eyes met Draco’s; Draco gave a minute shake of the head in answer to the silent question.

Daphne sat herself in the closest chair, hands neatly resting in her lap. “So… whatever task it is you two have been assigned, it’s obviously backfired. What do you want? Mother and father are in Normandy until next week – though I’m sure you’re aware of that.”

Draco gazed back. “We have a proposal for you.”

The blonde raised a dainty eyebrow. “ _You_ have a proposal?” she repeated loftily. “Do tell me why it’d be worth my while to listen to two Death Eaters tied to chairs? Why shouldn’t I just summon the Aurors to take care of you?”

“Daph,” Astoria murmured warningly from her seat in the chair. “They might not have come alone.” Daphne’s eyes widened.

“Which Aurors are you even referring to?” Draco asked, regaining the blonde girl’s attention. “They’re all serving the Ministry, and you know who the Ministry serves nowadays. Seems rather pointless to summon them if we’re Death Eaters, wouldn’t you say?”

Daphne’s nostrils flared. “Not all of the Aurors serve the current Ministry.”

Curiosity piqued by these words, Draco pressed on. “Like who? Surely you don’t mean the Order? I thought you Greengrasses were strictly neutral.”

“I doubt the Order will be particularly concerned about my political inclinations once I tell them exactly who is tied up in our sunroom.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s – _enough_ with the pretences,” Draco snapped. “Are you interested in hearing what we have to say, or not?”

Daphne looked ready to retort but to Draco’s surprise, she folded her arms and simply glared at them, her silence consent enough.

Draco sighed, wishing his arms were free so that he could rub his eyes. “Look – are the two of you planning on returning to school after the break?”

Immediately, Astoria’s eyes widened, darting to her sister.

“Astoria?” Theo asked.

Daphne turned and shot the younger girl a warning look. “Why the interest in our affairs, Malfoy? The two of you haven’t been in attendance for months.”

Still staring at Astoria, Theo spoke up before Draco could reply. “You’re not returning, are you? How come?”

There was a pause, then Daphne clucked her tongue. “Father’s made… arrangements for us,” she said shortly.

Draco’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Kosmos Greengrass made arrangements or arrangements were made on his behalf?”

Daphne remained silent.

“Are your parents actually in Normandy?” Theo asked.

A choked sound drew everyone’s attention to Astoria, who’d grown almost deathly pale, her teeth sinking into the plump flesh of her lower lip. Her eyes – wide and terrified – were fixed on Daphne, who swept towards her, sinking to her knees and looking up at her sister with imploring eyes.

“I know, Tori, _please_. Don’t do this to yourself.”

The brunette squeezed her eyes closed in response, tears coursing down her cheeks as her sister embraced her. For a few minutes, Draco and Theo watched as Daphne consoled Astoria, hands moving in gentle circles over the younger girl’s back. Astoria’s breath – harsh pants at first – eventually began to slow in response to her sister’s attentions.

Eventually, Daphne’s hands stilled and she hesitantly asked, “Tori? Do you want…”

“Please.” Astoria whispered, eyes still pressed closed.

“Okay.” Daphne rose and hurried from the room.

In her sister’s absence, Astoria buried her face in her hands and began to sob quietly. Theo and Draco shared uncomfortable glances.

“Tonks and Charlie will be wondering about us,” Theo mumbled.

“I know,” Draco murmured back, “but we need to work out what’s going on, don’t you think?”

“I do,” Theo replied, “but I’m worried Tonks will call in reinforcements if she doesn’t hear from us soon.”

"Can you even reach your Portkey?" he whispered, "because I'm not having any success."

Theo bit his lip. "I'll keep trying."

Draco hummed in reply, lifting his head as Daphne returned, pressing a vial into her younger sister’s hand.

“Charm too?” she asked, and Astoria nodded.

It was a Cheering Charm, Draco noticed, watching curiously as the girl downed the potion with a wince.

After a minute of silence, a rather subdued Astoria cleared her throat and smiled up at them, her eyes still wet and sparkling. There were spots of blood on her mouth from where her teeth had pierced her lip. “I apologise for making such a scene.”

Theo responded with an uncomfortable smile.

“What is going on?” Draco demanded of Daphne.

“Shouldn’t you know?” she countered. “Isn’t that why the two of you are here? The Dark Lord’s little errand boys, come to collect his recompense?”

“We’re not Death Eaters,” said Theo, his brow crinkled as Draco’s heart quickened.

The blonde girl let out a derisive laugh. “Oh, spare me. We’ve all borne witness to the outcomes of Malfoy’s little ‘promotion’; you were merely next in line, Nott.”

“I’m not Marked,” Theo insisted. “I’m with the Order. _We’re_ with the Order.”

“This is getting more and more ridiculous,” Daphne snapped; Astoria smiled sardonically. “You with the Order – doubtful. Malfoy with the Order – utterly impossible!”

“It’s very much possible, as a matter of fact,” Draco responded. “Moreover, Charlie Weasley and Nymphodora Tonks are standing at the foot of your driveway at this very moment. You want to call an Auror? Call her.”

“Get one of your elves to check,” Theo added.

“One: I’m checking your arm before I do anything; two: you _will not_ tell me what to do,” Daphne retorted, Astoria rising once more to fix her wand on Theo. “If you try anything when I roll up your sleeve, Astoria will hex you.”

“With pleasure,” the younger Greengrass said gleefully, her wand twitching in Draco’s direction for emphasis. The girl who stood before them was an unsettling contrast to the version of herself who’d been sitting before them just minutes before.

With a small nod, Theo sat still and compliant as Daphne peeled back the sleeve of his Slytherin robes.

“He’s UnMarked, Tori,” she confirmed over her shoulder. “Kip!”

“Yes Miss Daphne?”

“Check outside, will you? Is there anyone at the foot of our driveway?”

“Kip will be checking right away, Miss!” the house elf vanished with a pop, returning almost immediately. “There is being two people at the end of the driveway, Miss Daphne! One is a wizard with red hair and the other is a witch and is having bright pink hair.”

“Red like a Weasley,” commented Astoria. “Could still be a ruse though, or Polyjuice. What about the pink?”

“Metamorphmagus,” Draco supplied, “and they’re not Polyjuiced.”

“You really think we’ll take your word as truth?” Daphne said sharply.

“You know they’ll be suspicious if your elf invites them in,” Theo said.

“Of course I know that,” Daphne informed him coolly. “That’s why you and I are going outside to do it instead, so that you can inform them that you’re not a hostage.”

“Well–”

“Shut up. Now, Nott - we're going to going and speak with these friends of yours. If you try anything - _anything -_ you  _will_ regret it. _Finite."_


	17. Accommodatio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long absence - life has been rather busy!

 

With a poke of her wand Daphne steered Theo out of the Greengrass’s sunroom, leaving Astoria and Draco behind. Still chairbound, Draco regarded the brunette before him in silent contemplation. In her sister’s absence Astoria’s grip on her wand had relaxed slightly, but her eyes still hovered on Draco, watchful and wary.

“It’s a bit hard to believe you’re cooperating with Weasleys, you know,” Astoria said insouciantly. “It’s even harder to believe that they’d accept assistance from the likes of you.”

“These are strange times,” Draco answered, pushing back the urge to wriggle in his bindings. The bubblegum Portkey in his breast-pocket was practically taunting him with its presence and his fingers itched for it.

“I heard about what happened to the oldest one—William, isn’t it? Face mauled terribly. Permanent scarring, according to the newspapers. How dreadful.”

Draco didn’t respond.

“And they’ve all simply… forgiven you for the trouble you’ve caused them, have they?” she continued, still speaking in that light tone of voice, as if she were merely remarking on the weather. “It all seems practically inconceivable, what with your families being at odds for generations. That is, assuming you’re not simply weaving a tale so you might bring us back to your master.”

“The situation between the Weasleys and myself has been… put aside for the time being,” Draco allowed, though mentally he was wondering whether this was actually true. “I’ve been working with Bill and Charlie as of late. We have similar aims. And I have no master, not anymore.”

Astoria scoffed lightly. “Well, forgive me if I have trouble believing that.”

Unfazed, Draco simply nodded, his eyes shifting to rest on the empty vial the younger girl had placed on the table. Astoria followed his gaze, her expression hardening.

“Don’t,” she said coldly, as if anticipating his questioning. “It’s none of your business. In fact, I’ve decided I’m not interested in hearing you speak at all until Daphne comes back. If you do, you’ll end up with boils. Understand?”

Draco sighed and lowered his eyes to the floor.

They waited.

 

 

 

It seemed like hours passed before Daphne returned. In the interim, Astoria summoned Gilly the house elf to procure a fresh pot of tea, and when asked, the elf informed her that Daphne and Theo were still on the drive conversing with Tonks and Charlie. The latter two remained outside the property, and hadn’t attempted to cross the perimeter despite the lack of wards. Apart from this, silence reigned save for the clink of china as Astoria sipped her tea with an air of feigned nonchalance. She was nervous though; Draco could see it easily enough. Was it simply due to the time which had lapsed since her sister had escorted Theo from the room, or was it related to her strange behaviour earlier that morning?

Draco was surprised to find Daphne’s _incarcerous_ was much stronger and unrelenting than he would ever have considered. He’d always thought her to be a rather vapid individual, happier to become another pure-blood society wife rather than reach any real potential as a witch. Her results in their classes had never been particularly impressive, just enough to keep Severus satisfied as her Head of House.

While Draco had admittedly never been enthralled enough to get to know Daphne—there had never been anything which had inspired him to move beyond their typically aloof interchanges—today he’d glimpsed a previously unseen side to her. The cunning and protectiveness she’d displayed in the face of threat were qualities which seemed to have been overshadowed by her ambition and narcissism at Hogwarts. While it didn’t make her any more likeable in his eyes it did suggest there were hidden depths to both of the Greengrass sisters.

When she returned Daphne came alone, her lips pinched tightly together. Astoria rose from her chair and moved silently toward her. Daphne stopped before Draco’s bound form and regarded him with hands on hips. He gazed back impassively, remaining still as she sighed and aimed her wand at him. If he hadn’t been so accustomed to having wands pointed at him, Draco might have flinched at the motion. However, while Daphne was fierce, she was no Death Eater; whatever she could do was nothing compared with the things he’d faced in his ancestral home.

“ _Finite_ ,” she muttered, flicking her wand at his bindings. “Apparently he was telling the truth about defecting from the Death Eaters, Tori.”

Astoria frowned lightly, but her wand arm fell to relax by her side. “Did you find out why they came here?”

Daphne paused, biting her lip, then nodded. “Yes.” She rounded the table and sank down into a chair.

Astoria, still hovering near Draco, eyed her sister in confusion. “I don’t…”

 “Where’s Theo and the others?” Draco interrupted, rising and stretching his limbs.

“Coming, I assume,” Daphne said absently. “Sit down for a moment, alright, Tori?”

“Alright,” Astoria said hesitantly, her eyes flicking towards Draco once more before she dropped down in the chair beside her sister. “Do you want some tea?”

“Please.”

Astoria refilled Daphne’s teacup and passed it over, her eyes alight with unasked questions. After taking a small sip, Daphne cradled it in her lap, staring pensively into its depths. Astoria watched her with concern but did not speak. Draco, meanwhile, remained standing as he waited impatiently for the others, growing increasingly uncomfortable in the presence of the two Greengrass sisters. After the events of the day, he’d never before been more thankful that his arranged marriage to Astoria had been annulled.

His relief when Tonks joined them quickly vanished when he saw the look on her face. He noticed Theo and Charlie following behind, Theo appearing somewhat shamefaced as he stopped beside Charlie, who remained surprisingly amiable despite the calamities of the day.

Tonk’s eyes flashed as they swept over Draco. “Weren’t as suave as you thought, hmm?” she asked pointedly.

“Save the lecturing for later, would you?” Draco grit out.

“Oh, we’ll be talking later, I assure you,” she returned. “This time, you were lucky; both of you.” She turned to Astoria. “Astoria Greengrass? I’m Tonks, and this is Charlie.”

“Hello,” Astoria replied uncertainly, her eyes sliding to regard Daphne, who had lifted her head at the sound of Tonks’s voice, her expression unreadable.

“We’ve accompanied Draco and Theo here today on behalf of the Order of the Phoenix,” Tonks explained. “May we sit?”

Eyes flicking back to Tonks, Astoria nodded.

Once all six of them were settled with tea distributed to each of them, Tonks leaned towards Astoria. “When we talked outside, Daphne explained your family’s situation… including why the two of you were pulled out of Hogwarts.”

Astoria’s eyes widened and she glanced anxiously at Daphne.

Daphne touched her sister’s arm. “I told them what I had to, Tori. Hear them out, alright?”

Draco blinked in surprise at Daphne’s turnaround in attitude. He couldn’t wait to find out what had occurred out by the roadside. His eyes met Theo’s and his friend sent him a reassuring smile and a nod.

“We have a safe-house,” Theo told Astoria. He projected self-consciousness as he spoke, his eyes resting on her face briefly then flitting away over and over. “It’s heavily protected. Draco’s been staying there since January, and I came about a month after him. I haven’t actually been sick these last months—I’ve been in hiding. My father has always wanted me to take the Mark, and he came near to getting his wishes granted but… before anything could happen, I—I found a way out.”

“We’ve come here to offer the two of you sanctuary,” Draco said, keeping all resentment out of his voice as he proceeded. “We have a lot of room, for you—and for others, in time. If the two of you were to go back to Hogwarts… well, there’s not really any protections for Slytherins. The other houses… well, you know.”

“We’re all one and the same to them, of course,” Daphne said darkly. “We’re all enemies to them in some form or another: Death Eaters or Dark sympathisers or Muggle haters.”

“It’s hard to tell what side people are on,” Theo quietly conceded, “especially when we’re all busy concealing our secrets from everyone else.”

“And yet you both came to visit us,” Astoria remarked, “without any kind of certainty as to how we’d greet you?”

“I don’t think either of them expected to be tied up,” Tonks interjected drily, earning a small smile from the brunette witch.

“We figured that me coming as Blaise would serve as a safeguard of sorts,” Draco admitted. “That obviously didn’t work out as planned.”

“Blaise,” Daphne spoke up suddenly. “Have you—are you—”

“Draco and Theo haven’t reached out to Blaise yet, but they intend to,” Tonks told her.

She nodded. “Good. He’d come to this safe-house of yours; I’m sure of it.”

Draco, gladdened by this, stole a glance at Tonks. His cousin’s eyes snapped to his and he knew their plans would need to undergo revision before more ventures were attempted.

“If you’re to come with us, you need to do so now, today,” Tonks told the two sisters. “If not, then we’ll need a vow that you’ll both keep your silence on this matter.”

 _Obliviate_ , Draco mouthed at her, but his cousin shook her head sharply.

“Your property is warded?” Daphne asked.

“That and more,” Charlie assured her. “I’d wager it’s one of the most secure buildings in Britain.”

“Of course you would,” Tonks muttered under her breath, giving him a playful shove.

Daphne frowned bemusedly at the two's antics, then nodded. “Alright.”

“No! We can’t _leave_ ,” Astoria urged, her voice tight as she swung around to address her sister. “Daph—we need to stay here.”

Daphne squeezed her eyes closed. “ _No_ , Tori. We need to go. We’ve been here too long already; it’s not safe and they’re not coming back. The wards have already fallen; we can’t stay here forever and there’s nowhere else we _can_ go. I’m sorry—I really am—but I think this is the best option we have.”

Astoria shook her head wildly, and for a moment Draco thought she would subside into panic once more. “How can you say that?” she asked, voice a near whisper. “How, Daph?”

The conversation seemed too personal for them to be witnessing. Discomforted, Draco glanced around at the others in an attempt to gain some understanding of what was going on. Tonks watched the scene before them with empathetic eyes; Charlie’s jaw was tightly clenched; Theo looked uncomfortable too but in a different way to him: he looked as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite summon the courage. It was evident that something dreadful had happened to Daphne and Astoria’s parents; perhaps some similar fate was awaiting the two sisters.

“Your sister’s right, Astoria,” Tonks told her. “Even if your sister is of age, you’re not. The two of you shouldn’t be alone here. When things have settled, we will make every attempt to reunite you with your family. But… you owe it to them to come with us and stay safe until then. You’ll be safer with us; I promise you that.”

Astoria sniffled and regarded her lap quietly, cheeks awash with tears. Daphne’s fingers stroked over her younger sister’s arm as they all awaited her response.

“Okay,” she whispered finally. “If you want to go, Daph, we’ll go.”

Daphne squeezed her sister’s arm then looked at Tonks. “Can we bring our things with us?”

“You’ll need to be quick—we’ve been out much longer than anticipated. We can give you… say, fifteen minutes,” Tonks responded, “and then we’ll have to go.”

“Alright. We already have most of our things arranged. Let’s go and get them, Tori.”

Astoria started. “Wait! We have to—” She looked up, cheeks pinking. “We have to see to our elves as well, don’t we Daphne?”

Daphne looked at Astoria pensively for a few seconds, then nodded. “Yes, we’d better. Come along, then.”

The two girls rose, the blonde tugging the brunette briskly from the room.

When they’d disappeared, Charlie sighed and ran a hand through his fiery hair. “This war is aging me prematurely; I tell you.”

 

 

 

The sky had darkened by the time they returned to Almach Cottage. Charlie only stayed long enough to return the wards to their normal state and wish the Greengrass sisters good luck. As they gathered in the dining room he nodded a weary farewell to Draco and Theo, squeezed Tonks’s shoulder and kissed her cheek, then made his way to Andromeda’s room to use the Floo.

For a few moments Draco stared down the hall towards Andromeda’s closed door and then his eyes widened in understanding.

Theo had passed his Portkey to Tonks before leaving the Greengrass home, journeying back with Draco instead. He hadn’t really thought about it at the time, simply assuming that the four of them had shared the second Portkey between them. However…

 _“Our daughter Nymphadora_ _was_ _our Secret Keeper, but the current one is a less obvious choice.”_

 _It’s Charlie!_ Draco realised, passing a hand over his eyes and feeling rather idiotic for not realising it sooner. No wonder it was he who came and manipulated the wards so that they could leave the property without using the Floo.

This insight led him to further speculations. Were there perhaps two Secret Keepers, one for Almach Cottage and another for the other Fideliused property their house was linked to?

_If so, that could explain why I’m still yet to travel via the Floo. It could explain why he’s continually having to adjust the wards to let me pass._

The concept—though it was only hypothetical—filled him with a tentative sense of hope; perhaps he was trusted more than he’d suspected. Perhaps—if there truly _was_ a second Secret Keeper—it was someone who couldn’t learn of the changes to Draco’s status and responsibilities within the Order.

Even if things hadn’t gone according to plan, he and Theo had succeeded in the end. There were now two additional people under Almach Cottage’s protection, people who had few other options. He didn’t like Daphne Greengrass—he wasn’t sure if he had the capacity to overcome his aversion to her—but he was still pleased with what had been achieved. Thanks to them, Daphne and Astoria would remain safe.

He watched Tonks as she stood in front of him, peering down the length of Almach Cottage’s hallway. She nodded slightly to herself as she counted then recounted the doors. “Hmm,” she said finally. “It looks as if you two will be sharing a room.”

Draco noticed Astoria and Daphne share a glance, confused by the Auror’s own bemusement.

Secretly gleeful, he raised his eyebrows at his cousin. “Well, that’s not particularly generous, Tonks.”

“I don’t have a say in the matter!” Tonks insisted, turning to shove him lightly in the shoulder. “We don’t argue with the house,” she told the two girls. “It’s an entity in itself, see. And, from the looks of it, it’s created one room for the two of you to share. There should be two beds inside though, I’d say. Come on, let’s go see.”

She led the two Greengrass sisters down the hall to the newest door, Theo and Draco bringing up the rear.

“This house never ceases to amaze me,” Theo whispered to him. Draco nodded in complete agreement.

Tonks turned and grinned brightly at the small group of Slytherins as the five of them stepped inside and surveyed the house’s newest bedroom. “See what I mean?”

Daphne and Astoria’s room was significantly larger than the others, comfortably fitting two queen-sized four-poster beds and the individual dressing tables and wardrobes which complemented them. The room’s theming was reminiscent of autumn, an elegant assortment of gold, olive and rust tones.

Daphne flipped her hair over her shoulder. “This will be adequate, Nymphadora,” she said evenly; Tonks twitched at the use of her given name but held her tongue. “We appreciate your family’s generosity.” Beside her, Astoria smiled thinly and nodded in agreement, her eyes revealing her unabated anxiety.

Out of their eyeshot, Draco rolled his eyes at Daphne’s cool courtesy.

“Be nice,” Theo whispered, elbowing him in the side.

“Never!” Draco whispered playfully as he elbowed his friend back.

Daphne cleared her throat pointedly. “Shall we settle ourselves in, Astoria?” she asked her sister.

Astoria blinked rapidly then nodded. “Yes, alright. Thank you; the room is lovely.”

Tonks pulled her lips in a tight smile; Draco could tell she was rather affronted by Daphne’s iciness, which seemed to have returned to her as quickly as it had fleeted. “You’ll meet Andromeda in the morning,” she told the two girls, heading back towards the door. “She won’t be back until late but I’ll be spending the night here, so feel free to knock on my door if you need me. It’s the one covered in dragons. You saw the kitchen before when we arrived—help yourself if you need anything to eat—I think there’s a beef casserole in there for dinner. You’ve got your own bathroom which should be supplied.”

“There’s—uh, there’s Muggle stuff in the kitchen,” Theo informed them awkwardly. “Don’t know if you’ve used anything of theirs before … we’ll show you how to make a cup of tea if you want one.”

Daphne quirked an eyebrow, eyeing him derisively. “I’m sure we’ll manage.” She turned abruptly, busying herself with investigating the room.

Theo glanced sideways at Tonks and Draco.

“Thanks again for letting us stay here,” Astoria said to the three of them quietly, her tone somewhat apologetic. “I—I understand this is the safest option for us, I do.”

“You’re welcome,” Tonks replied. “Remember… just down the hall. Goodnight, okay?” She wandered out of the room, Draco and Theo following behind.

“Well, you two have both earned your rest,” Tonks said once they were back in the hall, clapping them both on the shoulder. “Want some dinner?”

Draco shook his head. “I just want to sleep.”

“Thanks, Tonks, but I think I feel the same,” Theo murmured. “Merlin… having extra people in the house is going to be a bit of an adjustment, isn’t it?”

The Auror scratched her head, the strands beneath her fingers turning ashy. “We’ll need to keep an eye on Astoria in particular I think, especially over the next couple of days. Draco: Theo pulled me aside and mentioned the situation with the potion and the Cheering Charm. We’ll need to find out as much about it as we can; perhaps from the older one. She seems like she might be hard work, but I reckon we’ll be able to thaw her out in time.”

Draco scoffed. “Hasn’t happened yet,” he muttered. “Send her to Mexico. That’d be perfect—hot _and_ far away.”

Tonks reached forward and flicked him lightly in the forehead. “Attitude,” she chided. “Anyway; if my mother’s taught me anything, it’s to always second-guess my assumptions. Comes in handy as an Auror.” She winked. “Besides, imagine if we never gave _you_ a chance.”

Draco playfully shoved her back. “Life would be a lot more peaceful, I’d say.”

She poked out her tongue and retorted, “And so say all of us!” She waved her arms at the two of them impatiently. “Alright, alright! Go to bed—both of you. You both look like you’re about to collapse. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

“Yes, Mum; we’re going,” Theo chimed, grinning as the older witch rolled her eyes.

Exhausted, the two Slytherins trudged to their rooms. Too tired to summon the energy to take a shower, Draco stripped off his clothes and tumbled into bed, welcoming the solace of silence.

 

 

 

“When will you be getting Blaise?”

These were the first words which passed between Draco and Daphne the next day. She sat primly in one of the dining chairs, staring up at him with an expectant gaze. Despite the early hour her presentation was immaculate: she wore form-fitting robes of rose-gold, her long blonde hair charmed into sleek waves. Draco—who’d become used to tramping around in Weasley hand-me-downs—was still clad in an untransfigured pair of plaid pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt of Harry’s. He clutched the hem of his t-shirt self-consciously; at school he would never have allowed others to see him in such a state, and Daphne’s presence had reawakened concerns with his appearance.

“Malfoy.”

The blonde witch was the first to have made it to the kitchen that morning, and seemed to have had no trouble organising a cup of tea for herself. Draco noticed the steam gently billowing from the kettle and wondered whether it had truly been boiled by muggle means.

His eyes flicked back to her. “As soon as we can,” he responded wearily, then shifted towards the kitchen.

“That’s not a good enough answer,” she called from behind him. “You need to tell me what your plan is.”

Draco looked back at her, eyes narrowed. “I _need_ to tell you, do I? Isn’t that a bit presumptuous, Greengrass?”

“After your blundering yesterday, I’d say I’m well justified in doubting your… _proficiency_ ,” she responded coolly.

Draco grit his teeth but stopped himself from rising to the witch’s taunts. “It’s too early for this; there’s no point even starting this conversation until the others are up. Now, let me make myself a bloody coffee, alright?” He kept moving before she could object, ignoring the exaggerated sigh and the harsh clink of teacup against saucer as Daphne took out her frustrations on the crockery.

Fortunately, Andromeda chose that moment to enter the room, also pyjama-clad with an empty mug clutched loosely by her side. Daphne’s irritation seemed to disappear almost instantaneously as she rose from her seat, her expression morphing into one which projected sweetness and agreeability.

“Good morning, Mrs Tonks. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Draco watched with a raised eyebrow as Daphne moved closer and extended a hand to his aunt.

Andromeda shook the proffered hand with a bemused smile; she wasn’t one for such formalities, especially not while wearing her dressing gown. “Just Andromeda, my dear. Are you Daphne or Astoria?”

“Daphne Greengrass, ma’am. Thank you for accommodating my sister and I.”

“We’ve always got room here for more,” Andromeda responded with a smile, “but it’s really Theo and Draco who made the decision.”

To Draco’s pleasure, Daphne’s eyes widened and her smile faded slightly. While Theo and Draco had been the ones to voice the invite to stay at Almach Cottage, it was Andromeda’s words which truly substantiated the role they’d played. Draco knew Daphne would be mortified at the concept of being beholden to the likes of them, and such knowledge filled him with spiteful glee.

Daphne gave a short nod then glanced down at her teacup, avoiding Draco’s gaze as he appeared wordlessly by Andromeda’s side.

“Ah, thank you Draco,” Andromeda said gratefully as he plucked the mug from her grip. Sliding into the chair next to Daphne’s she added, “It’s a coffee morning for me, please. Make sure there’s enough water in the kettle for Nymphadora and Theo too; I thought I heard one or the other moving about on my way here, unless it was your sister, Daphne.”

“Oh.” Daphne gave her head a small shake. “No… no, it wouldn’t be Tori. She won’t be awake for hours. She needed a sleeping potion during the night so that she could get some rest.”

Andromeda looked up sharply. “She did? Does she need to take them often?”

“She’s had trouble sleeping lately,” Daphne responded in a tone which implied she wasn’t willing to comment further.

From the set expression on Andromeda’s face, Draco knew his aunt wasn’t prepared to comply with the girl’s wishes for long. He wondered whether she and Tonks had had a chance to talk last night.

“Well, I hope she gets the rest she needs. Draco, I think we’ll have muffins and fruit salad for breakfast this morning; sound fair?”

“I’ll help you prepare things.” Draco’s eyes flicked to Daphne’s cool ones as he stood. “And, yes Greengrass, we can talk about Blaise once the other two get here.”

“Good,” she said shortly, turning her attention to her neatly manicured nails.

Vexed by Daphne’s continued rudeness, he clenched his teeth and made his way swiftly to the kitchen.

 

 

 

Luna’s suggestion to transfigure the chairs into extendable benches had been simple but ingenious, Draco reflected fifteen minutes later as they all gathered around the table for breakfast. Charlie Weasley was a surprising—though perhaps not _too_ surprising—addition to the group that morning, and the new furniture arrangement stretched to accommodate the six of them (Astoria was still sleeping) seamlessly.

“So,” said Tonks, taking lead of the conversation, “before we start making any further plans, we definitely need to go over what happened yesterday. There were mistakes made which we cannot afford to let happen again.”

Draco looked up at her defensively. “I hope you’re not going to put all the blame on me, Tonks. I’m not exactly well-versed in planning out rescue missions. You’re the one who’s an Auror.”

Tonks flushed, her eyes sparkling as she met him with a glare. “There were a range of factors which were overlooked,” she responded. “I’m not _blaming_ anybody.”

“There were measures in place,” Draco argued. “We simply chose not to use them at the time.”

“And then you were bound and couldn’t use them even if you wished. As I said yesterday, you were lucky that your hunches weren’t wrong. If they’d been loyal to You-Know-Who, you could have ended up killed.”

“I suppose choosing Blaise to impersonate wasn’t the best idea either,” Theo remarked, filling the silence. “Not when he and Daphne are so close. You’re not that good an actor, Draco.”

“Well, who else was I supposed to be?”

“Realistically, you couldn’t have been anyone else,” Daphne spoke up, to Draco’s surprise. “Of the people we trust, Blaise is the only person who would have come.”

Theo frowned, likely thinking of all of Daphne’s admiring girlfriends. “Not even—”

“No, just Blaise.”

“So, what gave Draco away, anyway?” Charlie asked.

“The cakes,” Draco said gloomily. “Greengrass’s stupid little cakes.”

“Blaise doesn’t like them—like, _really_ doesn’t like them—but Draco didn’t realise and was eating them,” Theo explained to the puzzled Weasley.

“If it wasn’t for those cakes, I might have—”

“ _Maybe_ you wouldn’t have had a problem,” Tonks allowed, “but regardless, in hindsight I think the risk taken was too great. We could have ended up in all sorts of strife.”

Draco shrugged. “Fine, so we won’t rely on Polyjuice next time.”

“I’d say it depends on the situation,” Theo disagreed.

“Well,” Draco’s eyes flicked to Daphne, “if we _are_ going to try and get Blaise, we’d be going to Hogwarts. We don’t want to be recognised.”

“So Blaise is next?” Charlie asked. “You’re sure?”

“He’d come,” Daphne spoke up, looking around the table. “I know for certain he would.”

“Does he have the Mark?” Andromeda asked. “Is he doing _His_ work?”

“Never,” Daphne asserted confidently, “he’s doing what he does best.”

Andromeda frowned as Draco and Theo both grinned in recognition.

“He’s being Blaise,” Draco marvelled, his smile vanishing when he realised he’d been aiming it at Daphne.

“Not all of us know Blaise personally, remember,” Tonks reminded him drily. “I, for one, have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Blaise is often… underestimated by those who don’t know him,” Daphne said, her words laced with pride. “He’s brilliant, really. The Carrows disregard him; Snape has _always_ disregarded him.”

“Slughorn likes him,” Theo mentioned.

“Yes well, that’s _Slughorn_ , isn’t it?” Draco commented, knowing that Andromeda, Tonks and Charlie would likely have similar sentiments. “But yes, he’s in the Slug Club. Other than that—from the sounds of it—he’s going about his business reasonably unnoticed.”

“What business?” Andromeda frowned.

Daphne shrugged evasively. “This and that. Primarily, he’s just trying to get through the school year without attracting attention from You-Know-Who’s minions.”

“They managed to get through the first war more-or-less unscathed,” Draco said, “they kept themselves distanced from the Dark _and_ the Light.”

Daphne nodded. “The Zabinis seemingly never fall out of favour with _anyone_ , regardless of what its members get up to.”

Tonks frowned. “Anyone?”

“Anyone who matters,” Daphne amended with a smirk, not noticing Tonks’s disgruntled expression.

“His mother’s been married a few times,” Andromeda recalled slowly. “Her husbands seem to have the most unfortunate luck…”

Daphne smirked and winked at her conspiratorially. “She’s a remarkable woman. I adore her.”

“Been getting ideas from her, have you?” Draco taunted.

“I _beg_ your pardon?”

“Draco,” Theo elbowed him warningly.

Draco cleared his throat and returned to the previous subject. “So, Blaise… you’re sure he’d come with us? He wouldn’t want to hide out at his mother’s, say, or leave the country altogether?”

“Well… he might have such ideas,” Daphne mused, “if I don’t come with you and convince him otherwise.”

“ _What_?”

“Oh, honestly!” she snapped. “I am _not_ going to wait here and hope you don’t do anything foolish and get my best friend killed.”

Tonks glared at the blonde. “If you think for one moment that we are so unprofessional as to allow—”

“Things were hardly faultless yesterday, _Auror_.”

“Alright!” Andromeda stood up, resting a hand atop her daughter’s shoulder as she attempted to deescalate the situation. “That’s enough—all of you. Kingsley and Remus will be here in about an hour. I think it wise that we all take a break and reconvene again then. Casting blame and making insinuations—of _any kind_ —is not going to help with anything. When we continue this discussion, we will do so as _adults_. Is that clear?”

“Yes ma’am,” said Charlie automatically, despite the fact that he’d said very little so far. Assuming this reaction was commonplace in Molly Weasley’s household, Draco sniggered behind his hand.

“It’s clear,” Tonks muttered.

“Good. Now, I don’t think pyjamas will do for a meeting with the Order’s commanders, do you? Go and get dressed when you all come back, do so with less of this… antagonism.” With that, Andromeda headed for the garden, stepping outside and slamming the door shut behind her.

The five of them stared at each other in silence for a moment.

“Right then,” said Tonks brusquely. “Come on, Charlie.” She grasped his hand and tugged him out of the room.

Draco eyed Daphne. “You’re impossible, Greengrass,” he informed her, once his cousin and Charlie were out of earshot.

“ _Me_? If anyone’s impossible—”

“ _Shut up_ , both of you,” Theo cut in sharply, his hand running wearily through his hair.

Draco’s mouth snapped shut in surprise at his friend’s uncharacteristic retort. Sure, Theo had told _him_ to shut up many times before, but he’d never, _never_ said such a thing to anyone else.

Daphne, however, stood up and took a step closer to Theo. “How _dare_ you,” she snarled, glaring up at him. “How dare you speak to me that way! I might have _tolerated_ your presence so far, Nott, but don’t you dare presume for a minute that you and I are equals or that you have the right to tell me what to do. You’re _nothing_ , you’re _nobody_.”

Theo paled, backing away from the furious girl.

“ _Never_ tell me to shut up again.” Daphne spun on her heel and stormed up the hallway, leaving two stunned wizards in her midst.

“You know, I think that’s the most she’s ever said to me,” Theo murmured weakly.

“Theo—what the _fuck_ was that?” Draco demanded.

Still pale, Theo bit his lip and shook his head. “It’s fine.”

“Are you mental? No it’s not! She’s—”

“ _Draco_.” Theo sighed, his eyes pressing closed. “Do you really think this is the first time Daphne—or anyone—has told me I’m beneath them?”

“Don’t just brush this off! I am not going to just stand back and allow her to treat you like crap,” Draco told him firmly. “This is _your_ home.”

“Our home,” his friend corrected in a disconcertingly reasonable tone. “It’s hers as much as mine now.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Stop being such a Hufflepuff about this, would you? I’ll not have her walking all over you and spreading her poison about—not in _this_ house. There’s no hierarchy here, no ladies in waiting. She will treat you with respect or otherwise we’ll—”

“No, Draco,” Theo interrupted tiredly, “ _we_ won’t be doing anything. I’m not like you and I’m not some henchman like Vincent or Greg either. This might be a house of Slytherins, but this _isn’t_ Slytherin House. I’m not interested in plotting or in revenge, not when it comes to this petty teenage… _shit_. We need to move on; we need to grow up.”

“I just… Theo—I just don’t want you to feel like you don’t belong here,” Draco said quietly. “I don’t want you to feel unvalued or alone anymore. I don’t want her fucking things up and you believing her over the rest of us.”

Theo’s lips curved in a soft smile, his blue eyes bright. “I know you don’t… and I don’t really, alright?”

“Good,” Draco said firmly. “Now, look—I don’t care if it makes you feel uncomfortable, Theo, but I refuse to be a bystander any longer. Do you understand?”

Theo swallowed, and when he spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. “Thank you, Draco.”

Draco shook his head firmly. “Don’t thank me Theo. I should have done something a long time ago.”

 

 

 

“Greengrass!”

The door flew open at his third knock. “Astoria’s still asleep, you know,” Daphne snapped.

“She’s asleep due to a potion; she won’t wake up till its course is run. I need to talk to you.”

She glared. “I’m not particularly interested in your company, Malfoy.”

“The feeling is mutual, believe me. May I come in?”

“ _No_. Whatever you feel you need to say can be said from the hall, I’m sure.”

Draco pursed his lips, wondering how Blaise managed to stand let alone _enjoy_ Daphne’s company. Even the fact that she was conversing with him now was infuriating, for he knew that, despite her dislike of him, it showed she considered him more an equal than Theo.

He tried to keep his voice even, to be the reasonable party despite his scorn for the girl before him. “I’ve come to propose a truce, Greengrass. We’re going to have to live and work together for the unforeseeable future. Till this war ends, we’re going to be spending a lot of time together. I’m not interested in gaining your friendship but this—” he gestured at each of them, “—is going to need to stop. Don’t you agree?”

Daphne arched an eyebrow. “What do you propose, Malfoy?”

“Civility. No more hostility or insults or manipulation. I’ll…hold my tongue, and in return, you’ll do the same.” It was a stupid negotiation and he hated that he was the one having to make it. How exactly was he supposed to treat Daphne with respect when her attitude constantly dissuaded it?

She snorted lightly. “I sincerely doubt you’d be capable of keeping up your end of the bargain, Malfoy.”

“If I can get along with Potter well enough—” Daphne raised an eyebrow at that, “—I should be able to get along with you.” Well, Draco _had_ been getting along with Harry until the other day. Now that his attempts to speak with the Gryffindor were going unanswered, he couldn’t be sure.

“I suppose I can try—for Blaise’s sake. He does hate being caught between us, after all.”

_I’m surprised she even cares how he feels about it._

“You’ll respect Theo, too,” Draco added.

Daphne frowned, mystified. “Why do _you_ care? You’ve never cared before.”

“Because I will not tolerate my friend being treated like the equivalent of hippogriff manure,” Draco asserted. “The way you acted earlier was disgraceful.”

The blonde witch’s lips curved in an amused smirk. “So, you’re friends with Nott now, hmm? Seems like you’ve gained yourself a conscience over the last few months. Who would have imagined that _Draco Malfoy_ would become a defender of ostracised, pathetic losers like our Theodore?”

“He was ostracised because our parents told us to avoid him, through no fault of his own,” Draco snapped, “because we were idiots to believe that punishing him for being his father’s son—for the blood he was born with—was justified. We’ve all been blind to the wishes of our families for far too long, _Daphne_.” He ripped up his sleeve, turning his arm to display his Dark Mark in all its sinister glory. “Believe me; I know what I’m talking about.”

She gazed at his arm, her face contorted with an expression of enthralled revulsion. “What I said to Nott earlier was _nothing_ compared to the things you’ve done to people,” she said darkly, glaring up at him.

Draco met her gaze levelly. “Things have changed far more than you could possibly understand.”

“Planning on saving the Mudbloods too, are you? Surely your alliances haven’t changed _that_ drastically?”

“The saving can be left to the Gryffindors,” Draco said. “People like you and I don’t have a part to play on their battlefield, not now that we’re out of the Dark Lord’s clutches.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“You didn’t answer me either. Stop punishing Theo for his father’s transgressions and treat him like a human being, alright?”

Daphne’s lips formed in a façade of a smile. “Alright, Draco,” she said in mock sweetness, her eyes resting upon his intently. “I’ll accept this truce of yours, and I’ll abide by your wishes. After all—” her smile widened, “—one should hardly be punished for the blood they were born with, isn’t that correct?”

His lips set in a firm line as the door closed in his face.


	18. The Six Ravenclaws

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Recount of rape.
> 
> Note: Changes have been made to tags and warnings for this story to accommodate for this (and other upcoming things).

Kingsley and Remus soon joined them at the house, Bill appearing some five minutes later. Draco eyed the eldest Weasley son from beneath his lashes as the redhead stepped into the dining room, his insides awash with a renewed sense of discomfort. Astoria’s words from the day before had been a fresh reminder of what lay unspoken between the two of them. Although now wasn’t the time to deal with such matters, Draco knew he’d need to before long, while the ability to do so was still within his control. The last thing he wanted was for someone else to wreak havoc through their own interference.

Though Daphne had explained things to Charlie and Tonks the day before, she had apparently provided them with somewhat of an abridged version; they seemed to be just as interested in listening as the rest of them. They reconvened in the living room with fresh tea and biscuits while down the hall, Astoria slept on. At first, it had seemed insensitive for them to be holding such a conversation in her absence, for it wasn’t only Daphne’s tale to tell, but their hesitations had caused the blonde witch to prickle.

“It’s better if it’s just me who tells you,” she had insisted. “She hasn’t been coping well as it is, and any of my own attempts to discuss things has caused her… anxieties… to escalate terribly.”

Draco’s suspicions were soon confirmed: Kosmos and Ignatia Greengrass were not currently sojourning in Normandy, at least not to Daphne’s knowledge. In truth, she had no idea where they were. The last time she’d seen the pair of them had been the first night of the Easter break. When the Greengrass family returned home from King’s Cross Station after collecting Daphne and Astoria, they had found the Lestrange brothers waiting for them.

After this admittance she buried her face in her hands, inhaled shakily, and started to cry. For almost a minute she sat that way while the rest of the group exchanged silent glances over her head, Andromeda shifting closer to curl an arm around her shoulders. Eventually, Daphne sniffed and raised her head, indicating she was ready to speak again.

“Do you know why the Lestranges took your parents?” Kingsley asked her gently.

Daphne nodded. “Our family owes a debt to You-Know-Who,” she said, her face streaked with tears, “and they said it’s yet to be fulfilled.”

“Can you explain the debt to us?” Remus asked.

Daphne—who had been looking increasingly distressed—nodded, seeming almost relieved by the slight deviation in topic.

The trouble had started with Daphne’s uncle. Aster was the youngest son of Diarthron and Aurelia Greengrass and, at the age of twenty-two, it became clear that he’d suffered the misfortune of inheriting a blood-malediction originally inflicted upon a descendent three centuries earlier. The curse had resurfaced several times in the preceding generations, though not always; prior to Aster, Diarthron’s great aunt had been the last to suffer from it.

While the family had always anticipated it would eventually re-emerge at one point or another, Aster’s diagnosis still reduced him to a distraught state; over the centuries no cure had ever been found, and a long, painful death awaited him.

In desperation, he sought help from a most malevolent source.

Like many before him, Aster was swayed by Lord Voldemort’s charismatic wiles and the undeniable presence of his power. Furthermore, he was rumoured to be well-versed in the black arts. In Aster’s fraught mind, if there was any way he could secure his survival, this man would know it.

The Greengrass family had more or less kept their heads down during the precarious years of the nineteen seventies. But Aster’s breeding and his family's social status easily granted him audience with Lord Voldemort. After the man voiced his plea he was offered aid but, as with all of Voldemort’s ‘benevolences’, it would come at a price. Aster’s mortality would be prolonged, and his suffering under the curse would be eased, practically non-existent. In exchange, he simply had to pledge his magic. Aster was not to serve as a soldier—which he had originally expected to be commanded to make—but a siphon.

“So he agreed to become a Squib?” Draco murmured, his face contorted in disturbed awe.

Daphne gave a sort of half-shrug. “Not exactly. The arrangement involved allowing You-Know-Who to tap into his magic and drain it as he pleased. Almost like… like drawing from a well.” She swallowed. “It was intended that Uncle Aster… replenish his magic over and over again. He had a reputation for being rather powerful; it would have been a waste to deplete him entirely.”

The group pondered this in silence for several moments.

“I remember hearing stories of this, of witches and wizards pledging themselves as magical reservoirs,” Remus said darkly. “Most of it ended with them dying of magical exhaustion or falling into insanity.”

The idea that anyone would willingly allow such a thing to be done to them seemed near inconceivable to Draco. He glanced at the expressions of some of the other young Order members; it looked as if they agreed.

But, as Daphne explained, by this point, Aster’s desolation had rendered him too impulsive to consider his options rationally. Believing himself to have little other choice, he accepted the terms. However, in the end, Aster’s debt went unfulfilled when, three months later, he took his own life.

Despite their own views on blood purity, Kosmos and Ignatia had distanced themselves from the politics of the first wizarding war, spending its darkest days at their holiday house in Portugal instead. In early October of 1981, however, Death Eaters arrived on their doorstep and informed them of the existence of Aster’s debt. In the event of his death, they claimed it had been passed on to Kosmos. Refusing to comply with their demands for him to accompany them, Kosmos had pulled out his wand.

He, Daphne and his very pregnant wife barely managed to escape that night.

Three weeks later Voldemort had sought out Harry Potter, and, with his subsequent defeat, they had thought the trouble to be over.

Daphne couldn’t say for sure why it had taken Voldemort so long to seek out her father. Most likely it simply hadn’t been a high enough priority. Despite what they’d been told, there _was_ no debt owed; in reality, Aster’s death had terminated the arrangement. She speculated that Voldemort had merely decided that _someone_ still owed him, and had sent his Death Eaters to collect his recompense.

Daphne’s eyes lowered then, resting upon her knees. Taking a deep breath, she returned to her recount of their night of horrors at the hands of the Lestrange brothers, her voice unnerving in its expressionlessness. It became obvious why she’d preferred her sister not be present for the discussion. For all the dreadfulness she described, however, it somewhat allayed Draco to learn that Bellatrix had not made an appearance alongside her husband and brother-in-law.

The family had been able to do little to defend themselves against the onslaught of Voldemort’s henchmen. There had been no sign of intruders when the Greengrasses returned from London and, caught unawares, the four of them had been disarmed and bound almost instantly.

By the time Astoria had been stripped down to her underclothes, Kosmos’s stalwart silence had crumbled to the point where he was on his knees, begging for them to accept his magic. But this turnaround had come too late, and it wasn’t enough to divert Rodolphus and Rabastan from the path they’d started down. Only Ignatia’s pleas had ceased their wandering hands.

“Leave her be!” she had cried. “Take me instead, just leave her, _please_!”

Ignatia Greengrass sacrificed her own body to protect her daughter’s that night. In return, the Lestranges defiled her before her husband and children, and then, when they were finished, they’d defiled Astoria too, taking turns to seize Ignatia’s head and make sure she was watching.

Of the three women present, only Daphne had remained untouched.

“Why didn’t they hurt you too?” Andromeda asked softly, her hand stroking the girl’s forearm.

“They said that I—that _He’d_ ordered me to remain untouched, that I’d been chosen as a… as a _reward_ for one of their comrades’ faithful service.” Her lip curled in revulsion. “Apparently he has a proclivity for _blondes_.”

Kingsley leaned forward. “Who does?”

“ _Corban Yaxley_.”

Draco’s stomach lurched as she uttered the name. Corban Yaxley was yet another Death Eater whose status had risen following Lucius’s downfall two years earlier. Whilst residing in Malfoy Manor with various other members of the Inner Circle, Yaxley had taken it upon himself to act as a mentor of sorts to Draco, providing him with ‘appropriate’ literature which aimed to strengthen his magic and blacken his heart. He had firsthand knowledge of how cruel Yaxley could be to Muggle-borns and blood-traitors. While he’d consider them prerequisites for a mistress, Yaxley wouldn’t want Daphne just because she was beautiful or well-bred. He’d made a tactical choice in selecting her: her uncle had robbed his master and her father had been uncompliant, and subjugating her would provide his lord with a small fraction of restitution while gaining him further approval.

“They didn’t take you to Yaxley, though,” Kingsley had commented. “Do you know why they left you and Astoria behind?”

Indeed, Rodolphus and Rabastan’s final act had been to seize Kosmos and Ignatia and disappear with them. The two daughters had remained within the house ever since, Daphne left to console her traumatised younger sister.

“Taking me straight to him would have spoiled the fun, wouldn’t you say?” she said scornfully. “It’s much more rewarding to _claim_ one’s prize. I assume they left us there so we’d go to pieces while we waited.” Her eyes flicked to Draco and Theo.  “When we worked out who you were, I assumed that was why you’d come. To _collect_.”

Draco frowned, though not at what she’d said. Her response still hadn’t cleared up some of the questions he had been puzzling over, such as why neither of them had tried to leave the property since the attack, their behaviour during the visit, and why Astoria had been willing to let Blaise Zabini inside, even when accompanied by Theodore Nott. He told her as much.

“Tori refused to even consider leaving,” Daphne said wearily, “and regardless, well, where could we have gone? Hogwarts and the Ministry have both fallen, Snatchers are crawling around everywhere, and allies... well, they’re hard to find when you don’t know who they are or where to look.” Her eyes darted toward the two Weasley brothers before returning to Kingsley and Lupin. She tilted her chin. “Perhaps staying there was foolish; perhaps it wasn’t courageous or brave. But in my mind, it was the _safest_ option. What do you think they’d have done to us if we’d ran and then got caught?

“As for letting Blaise into the house…” She shrugged. “I suppose we were both naïve to do it, but he’d sent me a letter recently—” actually, that had been Draco, though he kept silent, “—and I simply didn’t think.” She punctuated her sentence with a self-chastising eye roll. “Nott being there as well should have been enough of a giveaway.”

“And then you bound us,” Draco remarked drily.

“I suspected you to be Death Eaters.” She glanced down at his arm pointedly.

“But you were _expecting_ Death Eaters. Why antagonise presumed Death Eaters? What happened to being ‘safe’?”

Daphne rolled her eyes. “Would Corban Yaxley or the Lestrange brothers really bother to Polyjuice themselves as my best friend? It seemed the work of amateurs, really. Frauds, even.”

Draco flushed. “Now wait just a minute—”

“No, I think we can continue,” Andromeda said firmly, shooting him a piercing look.

Daphne informed them that she had three main priorities: helping her younger sister through her trauma, getting Blaise to Almach Cottage, and rescuing her parents from Voldemort’s clutches. Considering the ordeal Astoria had faced, Draco believed the first alone would be challenging enough; the others seemed no less difficult.

This seemed to serve as a kind of segue, judging by the significant look Kingsley sent in Tonks’s direction. With a nod, she stood. “Come, we’ll start strategising about Hogwarts in my room.”

Andromeda turned to Daphne. “You can join them soon, if you wish. We just have a bit more to go through with Kingsley and Remus.”

For a moment, Daphne looked as if she were about to protest, but then she nodded. “I’d like to check on Astoria, too.”

 _It could have been you who’d done it, if you’d stayed_ , a sadistic little voice in his head whispered. _It could have been your father. He would have done it, you know, if the Dark Lord had commanded it of him._

Fighting against the bile rising in his throat, Draco’s mouth tightened and he stood too, making his way silently from the room with the others.

 

 

 

Daphne joined them for planning nearly an hour later, her blotchy cheeks indicating recently shed tears. She met Draco’s eyes defiantly as she settled in a chair, as if daring him to object to her presence. Draco resolutely pursed his lips and turned his gaze back to Tonks.

Astoria woke early that afternoon, but she didn’t venture from her bedroom. Andromeda followed Daphne inside and remained there for hours, only emerging in the evening to fetch dinner for the two sisters. As she accepted a tray laden with food she exchanged a tired smile with Theo and Draco, then turned and made her way back again.

Draco lay awake for a long stretch of the night, his Galleon clenched tightly in his hand. He still hadn’t heard from Harry since his misstep a few days earlier, so he had taken it upon himself to reach out to the Gryffindor. After listening to Daphne’s story that day, all Draco had wanted to do was talk to Harry. Perhaps it was strange that he wished to seek comfort from someone who he’d spoken to most intimately through the script on a coin. Perhaps it was foolish and weak, but he didn’t care much about being those things anymore. The idea that his thoughtless might have so easily destroyed their friendship worried him greatly. What was more worrying, however, were the other potential reasons for Harry’s continued silence.

****

**_What did we need to find during our detention in the Forbidden Forest?_ **

****

**_Tell me what your new wand is made of._ **

****

**_Where did Father get into a brawl with Weasley senior?_ **

****

No matter how much he tried to contact the Gryffindor, no reply came.

_Please be okay. I don’t care if you hate me, Harry; I just need to know you’re okay._

 

 

 

“Alright. If we want this to work, then it needs to be kept quiet,” Tonks said later the next day, looking around at the group assembled at the dining table. “So, that means we’re not going to tell any of the others.” She turned to face Neville. “No one can know on your side, either—not even Luna or Ginny, or those Patil girls or—”

“I understand, Tonks,” Neville interrupted. “I can manage to keep this quiet.”

She eyed him for a moment, as if expecting him to falter. Eventually, she leaned back and nodded. “Good. You’re essential to this.” Beside Neville, Theo smiled and squeezed his hand.

Their plans had come together quickly and that was good, Draco decided. Perhaps it went against his Slytherin tendencies, but he was growing sick of having to wait while his friends remained at Hogwarts, where they could not be protected. Maybe if he’d heard from Harry he’d be a little less restless, but the Gryffindor’s continued silence had awoken a sense of urgency within him.

Astoria had appeared alongside her sister at breakfast that morning. She looked pale and tired and significantly more subdued than she’d been two days earlier, but she’d greeted the other members of the house pleasantly and had been happy to engage in small-talk with Andromeda. When they’d all gathered that afternoon she had slipped into the room behind Daphne, determined to be a part of the discussion even if she wouldn’t be coming along on the mission. While she and Blaise weren’t as tightknit as he was with Daphne, they were still very close, after all.

Tonks continued to stare intensely at everyone, as if reluctant to trust their reliability. “We’ve got a lot of people involved in this latest plan— _many_ more than I’m comfortable with, if I’m completely honest. If anyone else is even just _aware_ of what we’re going to be doing tomorrow, the mission becomes infinitely more dangerous; do you all understand? We need to stick to the plan we’ve developed. There’s a lot more factors to consider this time—”

“Hope we’re not late, we—”

“—lost track of time, see, but—”

“—we’ve brought everything you asked for, Tonksy!”

“ _Tonksy_?” Daphne repeated drily; beside her, Astoria’s nose wrinkled.

 _Oh, surely not_ , Draco groaned internally.

Tonks tilted back in her chair and beamed at the two new arrivals leaning in the doorway. “Ah gentlemen, so glad you could join us. I was just about to tell everybody about the additional plans. Come in and make yourselves comfortable!”  


 

 

Although midnight was fast approaching Draco lay wide awake. Despite his efforts to clear his mind—he was _supposed_ to be adept at Occlumency!—his thoughts remained persistent.

Tomorrow, their small band of emancipators would be breaking into Hogwarts. They’d each transfigured a set of clothes before retiring to bed: Hogwarts regalia for everyone save for Tonks, whose robes now resembled those worn by the professors.

There were eight of them taking part in the next day’s mission. Astoria would be staying back with Andromeda, who had made subtle mention of a visitor calling by around noon. Bill had other Order business to attend to, but had wished them luck. Neither Kingsley or Remus had been present while they’d finalised their plans and that was probably a good thing, considering how convoluted the whole scheme had become.

Neville’s key role would be to monitor their coming and going from the school via the Room of Requirement. While this portion of the plan had been formulated Draco had slipped out to procure some Calming Potion; the evocation of the Vanishing Cabinet affair had been too much. His exit hadn’t gone as unnoticed as he’d hoped, however: he’d felt the knowing eyes which had fallen upon him. He could hardly demur their staring though, deciding that, while his distress might be unproductive, he deserved the shame.

Six of them—everyone except Neville and Tonks—would disguise themselves using Polyjuice Potion. It had taken significant effort to obtain Andromeda’s approval due to the complexity involved in brewing the potion and the ongoing issues with sourcing ingredients. She had enough in reserve to cover their operation, but had subjected the group to a lengthy lecture about using the potions mindfully, insisting they keep the standby supplies untainted until they were needed.

Fred and George had obtained Muggle hair for their disguises, rather than taking samples from current students. Draco had insisted on being the one to distribute said hair, suspecting that the twins might take advantage of the situation and humiliate or disfigure him. He hoped that he was just being oversuspicious since they’d reacted to his demands with cheerful indifference, but when it came to the likes of them, one could never be too cautious.

All of their school robes bore the Ravenclaw crest. They’d chosen this house simply because they saw it as the simplest and most conceivable option; imposter Slytherins would be apprehended immediately and it wasn’t even remotely plausible that any of the Gryffindors would willingly liaise with the snakes. Hufflepuff students were similarly eliminated; perhaps the enmity wasn’t as blatant in their case, but present interaction between the two houses was minimal. Although Slytherin was least favoured by the other houses—who would unanimously support the opposition over them when it came to Quidditch and the like—there were always Ravenclaw students who found reason to traverse the boundaries which lay between them.

Draco’s questions and objections had been abundant that evening, but many of the answers he’d received had left him dissatisfied and unconvinced rather than reassured. At times his opinions had been dismissed with barely any consideration, which irked him greatly. _He_ knew the Carrows better than anyone else present and Severus was _his_ godfather, for Merlin’s sake! But the others hadn’t seemed as concerned about the castles’ wards and security measures, or about the fact that every one of them had made it onto the list of Undesirables save for Daphne, Theo and himself (though Draco assumed himself more or less equivalent). Apparently—or so Neville proclaimed—Hogwarts was sympathetic to the Light and had not truly aligned itself with its new Headmaster. A similar thing had happened when Umbridge had forcefully assumed the position two years earlier. And then, Neville had recited some mantra—Harry’s, apparently—about Hogwarts being willing to help those who asked, and everyone except Daphne—who, ironically, had seemed to agree with Draco more than anyone else—had nodded in assent. They’d managed to smuggle Theo out, hadn’t they? And didn’t Neville pass backwards and forwards all the time? Fred and George added their weight by boasting that they had already developed contingency plan upon contingency plan, if they happened to meet any setbacks along the way.

Overconfidence was something he’d have expected from the Weasleys, but not Tonks and certainly not Theo—who was arguably one of the most meticulous people he knew. The only other person who could possibly hold that title was Severus, the very person who they were planning on hoodwinking.

It wasn’t just Draco’s nerves about their impending mission that were keeping him alert, however.

****

**_What colour are my bedroom walls?_ **

He shouldn’t have sent a fourth message, but he hadn’t been able to help himself.

He wished he could tell Harry about all the strange things which had happened over the last few days. He wanted to tell him that just a few hours earlier, he’d approached Fred and George of his own accord and apologised for being a prat to them over the years. He wanted to tell him that eventually, both twins had ended up shaking the hand he’d extended them. They were far from friends and far from disliking one another, but it was a start.

But he couldn’t simply blurt such things out, could he? Not when he didn’t know where Harry was or whether he was actually receiving Draco’s messages.

He sighed and slid the coin back inside his trouser pocket, then reached towards his bedside table, where a vial of Dreamless Sleep awaited him.

 _Hogwarts never helped me before_ , he thought to himself drowsily as the draught began to take effect. _Who’s to say it will help this time?_

 

 

 

It was time. They would take the first measure of Polyjuice at the house, allowing them to resize the school robes they’d prepared the night before. The preliminary dose would last them four hours, though they would each have several one- and two-hour vials on hand in case of an emergency.

As he had done several days earlier, Draco decided to take care of matters in the privacy of his bedroom rather than let the others bear witness to the indignities of his transformation. He stood in the centre of the room and looked down at the vial. While he knew what awaited him, today was different.

_I’m about to imbibe the essence of a Muggle._

It really shouldn’t have surprised him that, after he had added the hair, the potion had changed colour to crimson. Of course it would have to look like blood. Part of him wanted to laugh about how utterly ludicrous his life had become, while another part of him was fighting back fear-induced bile.

 _I’m about to imbibe the essence… of a_ Muggle _._

Logically, Draco knew it wasn’t going to kill him or physically scar him or do anything atypical of proficiently-brewed Polyjuice Potion. He knew that his anxieties arose from being subjected to years upon years of blood-prejudice. He knew that he needed to do this, both for the sake of the task which awaited them, and so that he could overcome his biases.

None of these things stopped him from being terrified.

“Three,” he whispered, drawing the vial ever closer. “Two. One.”

Draco gulped the potion down then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. As he fell onto all fours he belatedly decided that Muggle essence tasted like chicken soup.

When Fred, George, Charlie, Daphne, Theo and Draco reassembled in the dining room the latter four were rather discombobulated; they’d all transformed into pre-teen boys, brunette and fair-skinned and reasonably similar in height and weight. That everyone was rather unremarkable in the context of the school had been a deliberate decision of course, enabling them to roam about as unnoticed as possible. The strangest part of the process, however, concerned Fred and George, who—having been dissuaded from using the same hair source for their own potions—had taken on non-identical forms. In recent times it had been easier to differentiate between them since George had lost an ear, of course, but he had to be facing the right way for that to happen.

Draco had already come up with a pseudonym for himself: Andrew Perks. There was no such second year Ravenclaw at Hogwarts of course, but there were students with that surname, and he doubted Blaise Zabini was familiar enough with the younger students of rival houses to be able to pick out strangers.

“Remember to keep an eye on your watches,” Andromeda warned them for the umpteenth time. “I know it’s good to practice caution but you’ve practically cleared me out of Polyjuice supplies and I’d prefer you not use more than necessary.”

“Don’t worry, ‘Dromeda,” Fred said with a grimace, “I’ll be frugal as anything. This stuff is _disgusting_. Next time we’ll do something different.”

At that, Draco thought of Pansy and, by extension, Tracey Davis, the other Slytherin seventh year. Today was supposed to be about getting Blaise out of the castle; Draco’s voice had been drowned out by the argument that they needed to focus on one objective at a time, rather than trying to get a small group of people to Almach Cottage. He had expected at least _one_ of the Gryffindors to back him up but it hadn’t happened; perhaps they only expended their heroism on their own. He’d garnered some sympathetic glances but nothing more; the others were in favour of a straightforward mission, and they didn’t consider poaching three people to be it. In Draco’s opinion, breaking into the castle twice—or more—was a foolish notion, and surely security would become even tighter in the aftermath of securing Blaise. But Daphne, for example, seemed to be of the opinion that the repercussions of three Slytherins disappearing at once would be notably more severe than just one. What if Snape and the Carrows decided to mete out punishments to their housemates? While Draco could see her point to an extent, her arguments still struck him as rather strange; he knew Daphne and Pansy didn’t care for each other, but he would have expected her to have wanted to see to Tracey, since the two of them were friends.

 _If I see Pansy today, I’m not just going to let her walk by_ , Draco decided. _Fuck what they say._

Tonks, who’d been smoothing down everyone’s robes, stepped back and cleared her throat. She still looked like herself, though would be taking on a range of appearances once they got to the castle. The only observable difference lay in her professorial attire, which made her look decidedly sombre.

“Time to go,” she announced.

With bated breath Draco followed behind his cousin as she led them into Andromeda’s room, wondering if the day had finally come when he could use the Floo.

To his delight, his speculations were correct.

“Alright, just one last thing to take care of,” Charlie said, then nudged George. “Would you mind doing the honours, little brother?”

“Heh—I’m so important,” George told them with a grin. “The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at 19 Brambling Circle.”

Draco was stunned: he _had_ been right about there being two Secret Keepers. But he’d never expected that the second one would be someone like _George Weasley_ , of all people.

“You happy now, cousin?” Tonks teased him. “I know you’ve been waiting awhile.” She raised her voice to address the others. “Righto. Seeing as I’m the only one here who still looks like myself I think I’ll go through first; it wouldn’t do to catch anyone on the other side unawares, after all. Remember to enunciate clearly. George—would you wait until last, just in case you need to repeat the address?”

One by one they entered the fireplace and swirled away: Tonks, then Fred, then Theo. And then, it was Draco’s turn. Heart beating rapidly in his chest, he stepped forward and threw a handful of powder into the Floo.

“19 Brambling Circle!”

 

 

 

They came across a pair of witches at Headquarters, but by the time Draco had arrived Tonks seemed to have apprised them of the situation—though only the bare bones of it, of course. From there, they crossed a field to a yard full of abandoned Muggle contraptions which languished about in various states of dismemberment. One of these—while Tonks called it a bus, it was much more conservative than the garishly purple Knight Bus that Draco was familiar with—lay in the centre of the wreckage like a slumbering caterpillar, and it was that which they boarded.

The bus wasn’t fit to transport them—that much was obvious—but it was jammed with Portkeys.

“Don’t touch anything until I say so,” Tonks warned, “I don’t want anyone popping off to York or Holyhead on my watch. Now, where’s the blasted thing gone? I can never work out Molly’s system!”

“You and everyone else,” Charlie intoned, gazing around too. “Ah!” He reached forward and plucked a large plastic disc from a shelf. “Here. Grab hold, people.”

The Portkey deposited them on the threadbare carpeted floor of a dimly lit room. Grasping Tonks for balance, Draco straightened, his eyes focused on the sole piece of artwork in the room: an oil painting of a sweet-faced blonde girl.

Someone entered the room then but Draco—who was furthest from the door—couldn’t see above the heads of the others.

“Wotcher, Aberforth!” Tonks chirped brightly.

“Don’t know why you sound so cheerful, girl,” he heard the old man grunt, “you’re a bunch of fools, the lot of you. Breaking into Hogwarts—pah! Anyone with a lick of sense would be heading in the opposite direction.”

“Blimey, you’re a right misery guts sometimes, Aberforth,” said George.

“And for good reason,” Aberforth retorted. “I’ve got you people traipsing backwards and forward through my bar and _private quarters_ day in, day out, and _His_ lot stinking up the place to boot. It’s a dangerous line to tread.”

“Oh Abe, we know you wouldn’t have it any other way,” Fred told him sweetly.

Aberforth paused, blinking at the Fred-boy. “I don’t think I want to know who’s under all… that,” he said finally.

“Best if you don’t know,” Charlie spoke up. “We’ll try and be out of your hair as fast as we can, right Tonks?”

“We _do_ appreciate your support,” Fred chimed.

Draco looked sideways at Theo and muttered under his breath, “Is he... _flirting_ with Dumbledore?”

Theo shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know, but I think we’re _all_ uncomfortable right now.”

“Someone’s gotta do the hard work, anyway,” Fred continued, before having the audacity to wink. “A little bit of danger makes things interesting, wouldn’t you say?”

“No, I _wouldn’t_ say. There’s a difference between hard work and plain recklessness,” Aberforth growled, glaring suspiciously at Fred. “Bloody Gryffindors; nothing gives me a greater headache.”

“Excuse me!” Fred protested, gesturing to his chest with a proud thumb. “Do we _look_ like Gryffindors to you?”

“Enough!” Tonks whacked Fred over the head lightly. “Thank goodness we’re not expecting _you_ to run into many people today. You’d draw them to you like goblins to a niffler colony.”

Fred fell silent, though exchanged a cheeky grin with his twin.

Shaking his head in exasperation, Aberforth stepped to the side, allowing Draco to see him properly. The old man’s blue eyes were startling in their intensity, even from behind his grimy spectacles. When they flicked towards him, Draco looked quickly away. Even if he was in disguise he still didn’t want the eyes of a Dumbledore appraising him.

Aberforth turned to the picture upon the wall. “Right then. Ariana?” The blonde girl in the portrait smiled and dipped her head, then turned and began to make her way down a long tunnel which stretched behind her. He watched her progress for a few seconds before turning back to the group. “Can’t say I like the idea of you lot going into there—whoever you are—but I learned long ago it’s near-useless arguing with Order types once they’ve set their mind upon something. Never been much point in trying to persuade Weasleys, either,” he finished, jerking his chin towards Fred.

“Godric—the man’s _good_ ,” George murmured reverently. From beside him, Charlie rolled his eyes.

“Statistically, the odds are in his favour. Also, I don’t think it was a compliment,” Draco remarked.

“Oi!—” But whatever retort awaited him was interrupted by Ariana’s portrait swinging forwards to reveal an actual tunnel.

“Morning, all,” Neville greeted as he stepped out, frowning slightly as his eyes roved over the group.

“I’m here,” said Theo, raising a hand and moving towards him.

“This is strange,” Neville stated as he clapped Theo—who was much shorter now—on the shoulder. “Please don’t ask me to kiss you when you look like this.”

“I don’t want to watch the two of you kiss in any shape or form,” commented Daphne drily.

Neville turned and squinted at the Daphne-boy. “If you don’t like it, don’t look then, uh… Malfoy?”

Daphne huffed. “ _I’m_ not Malfoy!”

Draco was simultaneously amused and offended that Neville had mixed the two of them up.

“We’re on a time limit, remember,” Charlie interrupted. “Could you lead us through, Neville?”

With a nod, Neville stepped into the tunnel, followed by Theo and Charlie. Draco entered next.

“See you soon,” he heard Tonks say to Aberforth.

“You take care in there, girl,” Aberforth returned gruffly.

“This is amazing,” George breathed as the Weasley twins stepped into the tunnel behind Draco. “This is _not_ one of the routes we know, hey Freddie?”

“I reckon old no-nose had his minions block all the others,” Fred returned. “Does this lead to the Room, Neville?”

“Sure does,” Neville’s voice echoed from ahead.

“Brilliant.”

“You’ve been through this tunnel before, haven’t you, Theo?” Draco asked.

“Yeah. This is how they managed to get me out of the school.”

The walk took some time, seeing as they were travelling to the castle from Hogsmeade. When the passage began to slope upwards, Draco yearned for his longer, eighteen year-old legs.

“Think we might need to start exercising more,” Theo panted. “No wonder Neville’s hamstrings are so—”

“ _Theo_!”

Theo chuckled breathily.

Eventually, they made it to a set of stairs and another door.

“Here we are,” said Neville. “Just… give me a moment. I need to reorient the Room so that we’re not seen by anyone else. Plus, the others don’t know the frequency of my comings and goings, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

They waited in silence as he paced backwards and forwards before the entrance with head bowed, before stopping and nodding to himself. Opening the door, he peered through at the room beyond.

“Alright, it looks like we’re all set. Come through, come through.”

They stepped into the Room of Requirement. It only took a moment for Draco to notice that there were no green hammocks or tapestries to complement the reds, the yellows and the blues. There were no Slytherins staying here, and there was no place to accommodate for them either—no bare patch of wall for a fourth banner or space for extra bedding. He’d already known that there were no Slytherins staying in the Room with the other students of course, but seeing the evidence—or lack of it—was another thing altogether. A lump forming in his throat, Draco glanced at Daphne, who was standing beside him and gazing around at the décor too. She turned and met his eyes and it was if they shared a brief moment of solidarity in those next few seconds.

“It’s almost eleven o’clock,” Tonks announced, procuring a mirror from her robes. “Excuse me while I get myself prepared.”

During their strategizing the night before they’d learned just how much Tonks enjoyed playing the role of bait. Before anyone else had had the chance to even open their mouths to volunteer, she’d claimed the role for herself.

Their plan would involve Tonks loitering near Alecto Carrow’s office during the lesson before lunch, a time when the Death Eater had no teaching duties. Draco, who had spent more time in her vicinity than was preferred, was familiar enough with her timetable to know this. At this time of day, the halls surrounding her office would be empty, save for the occasional wandering student.

“And… why exactly are you taking on the appearance of an old woman, anyway?” Daphne queried condescendingly as she watched Tonks’s face gain a series of deep-set wrinkles.

“Isn’t it obvious?” George said, as if speaking to a small child. “If she looks like a Hogwarts student, Carrow won’t rest until she finds the culprit. She and her brother will just keep torturing everyone until they get answers.”

“They might do so anyway,” Theo commented morosely, “but it might still deter them. Good thinking, Tonks.”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve used this disguise,” Tonks told them cheerfully. “There’s so much _more_ you can get away with when people think you’re just a little old lady.”

Daphne raised a sullen eyebrow. “I’m sure.”

George and Charlie, who were to serve as lookouts, would stand at either end of the hall, armed with Decoy Detonators if they needed to create a diversion. They would conceal themselves with a little help from one of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes’ latest developments.

“At the moment we’re calling them Humdrum Cloaks,” the twins had claimed proudly the night before as they’d displayed the shimmery garments, “but we might change the name later on.”

Apparently the cloaks combined the camouflaging properties of the Disillusionment Charm with the attention-detracting qualities of a Repelling Charm. This meant that anyone who got too close would be overcome with the urge to go away and do something much more interesting. Unfortunately, at this point the twins only had three prototypes ready for use, which meant there weren’t enough to cover them all. They would be used initially to camouflage the three Weasley brothers in the hall, and then later to sneak Blaise out of the school.

It was rather unfortunate that they couldn’t simply neutralise the Carrows permanently. The consequences of doing so would be much too severe: at this point the Order simply wasn’t prepared to enrage Voldemort so severely. Furthermore, they couldn’t use conventional means to deal with them: Neville had explained that casting magic would activate some sort of customised Caterwauling Charm which had been placed upon each sibling. He’d learned this from experience, apparently.

The previous night, Tonks had explained how this setback would be overcome.

_Tonks’s hair was a vivacious shade of magenta to match her enthusiasm. She leaned forward. “So, this is what’s going to happen instead: Fred is going to approach from behind, then whack her in the back of the head with a bludger and knock her out. Simple.” From beside Tonks, Fred’s lips stretched in an exuberant grin._

_For a few seconds, the group was rendered speechless._

_Draco was the first to speak. “It seems rather… brutal.”_

_“Brutal and effective!” Fred asserted brightly._

_Theo was still frowning. “But… what happens if you end up… giving her brain-damage?”_

_“Do we really care?” asked George._

_“Besides, Quidditch injuries happen all the time,” Fred said innocently. “Those bludgers can really pack a punch, you know.”_

_“No. I don’t like it,” Andromeda spoke up, “and I know Molly wouldn’t approve of it, either.”_

_Fred paled. “But you’re… you’re not going to tell her though… are you?”_

_“Sometimes these things need to happ—” Tonks began, but was cut off by her mother._

_“That her sons are_ happy _to grievously injure people—possibly permanently—in cold blood?” Andromeda had asked sardonically._

_“But they’re Death Eaters, ‘Dromeda!” George insisted._

_“I don’t care who they are. Find another way,” the woman said firmly. “I’m sure the two of you are inventive enough to come up with an alternative.”_

_Grumbling, Fred put forward the idea of using their Patented Daydream Charms on her instead. “The charms would have to be refreshed every half hour though,” he told them, and then he and George looked around at everyone hopefully, as if this would change their minds._

_To their disappointment, no one objected._

“Well.” Tonks, who was fully transformed now, rubbed her hands together. “Shall we, boys?”

“After you, Nanna Tonks,” George quipped, then performed an extravagant bow. “I might not be crazy about doing all this just to retrieve some stinking Slytherin, but I do love having the opportunity to test out our products.”

“Gotta say though, I’m a bit disappointed that it’s not going to be as fun now,” Fred mentioned to an unsympathetic Charlie as they moved towards the door leading to the seventh floor.

Overhearing this, Theo leaned towards Draco and murmured, “They’re disturbing. Don’t you think they’re just so… disturbing?”

Draco nodded and licked his lips. “Yes, and I must say: I’m rather glad we’ve got them on _our_ side.”

 

 

 

It wasn’t even noon but Alecto Carrow had had enough. She’d been suffering the presence of those foul little cretins all morning and, now that her free period had finally arrived, she was planning to indulge. She had a hankering for brandy and she didn’t give a damn what Severus might have to say about it: there was _no_ way that she could get through the afternoon sober.

It wasn’t Alecto Carrow’s intelligence which had earned her a position as a Hogwarts Professor. Both she and her brother dipped below the average in that department. No, it was the Carrow twins’ scrupulous approach to violence which had won them their roles. The Dark Lord needed people with _presence_ ; that was what he’d told the two of them. He needed people who could demand the respect his cause deserved, who could inspire obedience in those who held potential, and who could mete out punishment with both consistency and fastidiousness. The Carrow twins weren’t planners, and they couldn’t fill the roles of bureaucrats or politicians, and they couldn’t handle matters with the quick-wittedness possessed by some of the others. But on the other hand, they did well when it came to inspiring desolation in the unworthy, and they manage to keep a sharp eye on Severus.

Alecto rounded the corner and stopped in her tracks. The hall was empty save for an old woman, who was positioned outside her office. Mouth gaping, Alecto’s head cocked to the side as she assessed the situation before her. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of the cylindrical can which was clutched within one liver-spotted hand; she didn’t know _what_ it was per se, but she could tell that it was trouble.

“Hey!” she bellowed. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

The woman turned and grinned toothlessly at her, raising her other hand to give a jaunty wave. “Just a little bit of redecorating, Alecto!”

Alecto’s face purpled and she surged forward. “A little bit of—”

And then suddenly, she felt warm and dizzy, and heavy, so _heavy_. Stopping in her tracks, she sank to her knees, her eyes drifting closed.

“My lady?”

“…Hmm?”

“Open your eyes, my lady.”

Slowly, Alecto did, blinking up dazedly at the hand extended toward her. It belonged to a man, a man who was blonde and tanned and who smiled down at her so _charmingly_ with his perfect teeth.

“Gilderoy Lockhart?” she asked in wonder. “What are _you_ doing here?”


	19. Reconciliatio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely happy with how this chapter has turned out but I've put way too many hours into it and am desperate to move on! I'll come back and revise it later, as I've done with many of the others, no fear.
> 
> Sorry if there's some formatting issues--I'm on holiday right now and using a different device.
> 
> Thank you also for all of the comments--I'm sorry for being so terrible at replying! When I get an alert my stomach still lurches--posting this stuff is nervewracking, haha! But the kind words are so, so appreciated, and the critique gets me thinking, and ultimately I want to be a better writer :)

“We’re ba-ack!” a singsong voice announced.

Draco, Theo, Daphne and Neville stirred from their own private thoughts, pushing themselves to their feet to watch a dazed Alecto Carrow be guided through the Room by Fred, who looked wickedly pleased at her state of placidity. George and Charlie trailed behind, the former wearing a grin which mimicked that of his twin—or which would have, had they imbibed the same draught of Polyjuice Potion.

Draco noticed that the subtle differences between the twins became much more pronounced under Polyjuice. It was more difficult to consider them as one and the same when they were no longer mirror images of each other. Back at the house, the group had quickly realised that everyone looked so nondescript in their boyish forms that it was rather difficult to keep track of who was who. Andromeda had come up with the idea of giving everyone a coloured wrist band. They’d each been allocated a colour which matched their initials: gold for George, fuchsia for Fred, crimson for Charlie, green for Daphne, teal for Theo and maroon for Draco. It wasn’t a perfect system, but it was something.

“This is so disturbing,” Theo remarked from beside Draco, his eyes wide as he watched Carrow’s progress. “Does she look so happy because of the Daydream Charm?”

"Yes,” Charlie replied with a grimace. “Turns out she’s quite the Lockhart fan. He seems to be the object of her fantasies, from what we’ve gathered.”

Draco suppressed a shudder. Alecto’s lips were curved in a shy, goofy smile, and every now and again she would cast admiring glances over her shoulder at Fred as they moved. Despite knowing that her imposed tranquillity was convenient and necessary to the successful completion of their task Draco still begrudged it, wishing the bitch could at suffer at least a little bit whilst in their control. He tried to placate these feelings by reassuring himself that she would receive her comeuppance someday soon, along with her brother. It helped a little, but vengeance would have been better.

“Hey Nev,” Fred called, stopping the Death Eater beside a stretch of wall, “alright if we sit her here?”

Neville shrugged. “Yeah, I reckon so. No one will be able to get into this version of the Room apart from us. You’ll be able to get her to stay still, right?” He didn’t look as if he particularly wished to help them guard her.

George pulled a rock from his school satchel and started to transfigure it a into a wooden chair. “We’ll make sure of it.”

“I hope no one saw you leading her around the castle in that state,” Draco said archly as he watched the twins guide her into the seat then bind her with rope.

George straightened and eyed him dispassionately. “Do you think we’re stupid or something, Malfoy? We threw one of the Humdrum Cloaks over her. Though…” He turned to his brother. “You know, I think we’re going to have to tweak these a bit, Freddie.”

Fred nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, I agree, perhaps—"

“Why do they need tweaking?” Daphne interrupted, stepping closer and regarding them with crossed arms. “Is there a problem with them?” The twins, unused to her imperious nature, merely raised unimpressed eyebrows.

“The main issue is that it’s quite difficult leading someone around when they’re wearing a garment which is repelling you rather strongly,” Charlie commented before his brothers could. “I, for example, kept getting the urge to go back to Romania. I suppose that’s what the spell decided would be a ‘more interesting’ thing for me to do.”

At that moment Tonks—looking her normal self once again—threw her own Humdrum Cloak off her shoulders. “Oh for goodness sake!” she huffed, the rest of the group eyeing her with bemused expressions.

“What’s wrong with you?” Charlie asked, frowning.

“I forgot to take this thing off when I came in behind the rest of you, and I couldn’t work out why no one was listening to me!” She sighed and smiled self-deprecatingly. “Can you please take it off my hands, Fred?” Tonks handed the cloak over and reached into the pocket of her robes to procure her hand-mirror. “I just need a moment to change and then we can get moving.”

She sat cross-legged opposite Alecto’s prone form and raised her mirror so she could see her own reflection. For a few minutes the group watched in silent awe as Tonks manipulated her features one by one. They’d all seen her with a myriad of hair colours and sometimes her irises would shift or flash if she became annoyed or excited, but watching her use her Metamorphmagus abilities to impersonate a specific person was an entirely different experience.

Finally, Tonks stood up neatly and turned to face them. Standing alongside Alecto, she wrinkled her nose and waggled her eyebrows then said, “So… what do you think? I think I have her height just about right but its hard to tell when she’s sitting down. Is the face okay at least?”

For a few seconds, they all stared between Tonks and the dreamily distracted Alecto Carrow.

“Godric’s balls, Tonks,” George said admiringly, “you look revolting!”

“Splendid work, old girl,” Fred added.

Tonks bared her yellow teeth in a grin and performed a mock bow. “Thank you, thank you! But... be brutally honest. Is it good enough?”

Daphne walked around Tonks slowly, completely ignoring the real Alecto, who continued to giggle softly to herself. “I must say—it’s very realistic,” she admitted. “You even included her split ends!”

“Excuse me, Miss Greengrass,” Tonks retorted, puffing her chest out self-importantly, “I am the Deputy Headmistress of this school and you _will_ treat me with respect.”

Theo waved a hand at her, shaking his head. “No, no— _Tonks_ , we went over this at home; you sound too much like Umbridge when you speak that way.”

Draco nodded in agreement. “Much as the Carrows are pure-bloods, their particular branch of the family are about as low-class as they come. They’re certainly not poets.”

Tonks deflated. “Right. I’ll keep that in mind.” She cleared her throat. “Shut your mouth, Greengrass, before I charm it shut for good.”

Theo smiled approvingly. “Much better. Just take your time.”

“Especially when you’re moving about,” Fred piped up. “Your clumsiness is renowned.”

Tonks rolled her eyes then stepped away from Alecto, looking around at her companions. “Alright! I hope the rest of you are ready. We want to get this done quickly but without drawing any attention to ourselves. Remember to stick with your partner and keep an eye on your watches. How long do you all have left before you need another dose?”

“I’ve got about one hour and forty left,” Draco informed her after glancing at his own watch. The others had much the same, give or take a few minutes.

“Make sure you have ten minutes to spare, just in case,” Tonks told them. “Find yourself a toilet cubicle to take your next dose—a _boy’s_ toilet, mind,” she added to Daphne, who looked unimpressed by the reminder.

“See you soon, team!” George chimed, settling himself on the floor near the giggling Carrow woman.

“Don’t try too hard not to get yourself killed, Malfoy,” Draco heard Fred mutter under his breath, which was met with snickering from George. Holding back the retort which rose to his lips, Draco turned away and watched the others ready themselves to leave.

Neville moved closer to Theo, one hand reaching down to grasp his chin lightly. “Be careful,” he said softly to him before stepping out of reach. “Sorry, but I’m not going to kiss you, not when you look like this.”

“Understandable,” Theo replied with a small smile. “Later, perhaps.”

“I’ll be here to let you through,” Neville smiled back.

Theo clapped a hand on Neville’s shoulder and nodded at Draco before heading towards Charlie, who was packing one of the cloaks into his school satchel. Readying himself, Draco approached Daphne, who was fiddling with her Ravenclaw tie and looking rather nervous, now that they were about to leave. He wasn’t thrilled to be partnered with her but was determined to be amiable.

He glanced down at the satchel hanging from her shoulder and tried to keep his tone neutral as he asked, “Did you get the cloak already?”

Daphne gave a detached nod and dropped her hands to her sides. “Shall we head out, then?”

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

 

 

 

Although lunch was being served when they left the Room, Tonks split off from them and entered the Great Hall alone. Being unrecognisable, they couldn’t follow; they could hardly sit amongst the Ravenclaws students when they bore the faces of complete strangers. Perhaps they’d receive a few questioning glances whilst moving about the halls, but that was nothing compared with the scrutiny they’d receive in the presence of the whole house.

Despite Daphne and Draco’s objections, Charlie and Theo had been the ones given the task of approaching Blaise and summoning him to a meeting in the Muggle Studies office. From there he would be questioned by Tonks, and—if everything went according to plan—he would be provided with a Humdrum Cloak and guided to the Room of Requirement. The belief of the majority was that Charlie and Theo would be able to act with more impartiality, since Draco and Daphne were closer friends with Blaise. Neither Daphne nor Draco appreciated the insinuation that they couldn’t be relied upon to be rational when it came to recovering their fellow Slytherin, but their protests had fallen upon deaf ears.

Instead, the two of them had been given the role of monitoring the Muggle Studies office and detracting any other lingering presence in the hall—be they student or professor. It was an important job initself; Carrow’s office was situated on the first floor of the castle along with many other classrooms, which meant that there was much potential for their mission to be obstructed. Although Severus and Amycus were their biggest concerns, even the most thick-headed first-year had the ability to significantly impact their success.

Stopping outside Alecto Carrow’s empty office, Draco and Daphne regarded the words which Tonks had sprayed upon the door earlier that morning. Judging by the precision of the lettering, the ex-Auror had either completed her work with the aid of a charm, or she was well practiced in the art of graffiti. The yellow script stretched across the wall as well, the missive being too lengthy to fit on the door.

“She really likes to make the most of a situation, doesn’t she?” Draco commented wryly.

“It was rather impulsive of her,” Daphne snipped. “A lot of people pass back and forth on this floor. It needs to be covered up before it gets noticed.” She raised her wand. “ _Illegibilus_.”

Although Daphne’s critique of his cousin caused him to stiffen, Draco couldn’t exactly disagree—drawing attention in such a way _wasn’t_ sensible. He nodded approvingly at the now unreadable jumble of letters before Daphne cast a second spell to disillusion them. “Good thinking. However—I do insist that we restore my cousin’s work before we leave.”

To his surprise, she shot a smirk in his direction, her eyes emitting a sparkle. “But of course. It’d practically be an offense not to.”

After checking both directions, they stepped back, taking their positions against the empty stretch of wall facing the door. Daphne cast a second Disillusionment Charm to cover the two of them. Some of the witches and wizards in the tapestries had been watching them with interest, but this didn’t worry Draco. During their strategising session, Neville had clarified that Hogwarts’ portraits—or most of them, anyway—were more intent on protecting the castle’s students, liaising with the school’s legitimate professors and stubbornly refusing to cooperate with the resident Death Eaters. According to the Gryffindor, the few troublesome paintings had been intercepted; in some cases Flitwick had performed charms to prevent the occupants from leaving their portraits, and the rest had been relocated to the Room of Hidden Things, subtly replaced by quieter works of art.

The hall became busier as students started to leave the Great Hall. Fortunately, nobody lingered along their stretch of the corridor, though this was hardly a surprise when the new professors were highly punitive and overwhelmingly unpopular. No one was interested in being in their vicinity for longer than they had to.

Daphne and Draco had spent almost twenty minutes standing back-to-back as they monitored the area when Tonks appeared in the hallway. Despite knowing it was his cousin beneath Alecto Carrow’s sneering veneer, Draco’s stomach lurched at the sight of her. Tonks didn’t turn her head as she passed, but she looked over her shoulder and sent a small wink in their direction before stepping inside the Muggle Studies office. If things eventuated as they’d planned, Theo and Charlie would arrive with Blaise in tow before long, and they’d have him at the Room of Requirement just as the next block of lessons began.

There was always the possibility that they’d never get to that stage, however. Daphne might have professed certainty about Blaise, but that didn’t guarantee anything. Even if the Zabini family continued to pledge neutrality, it didn’t stop them from favouring the victory of one side over the other, and didn’t stop Blaise from refusing their offer of sanctuary. Draco had heard Blaise make many less-than-favourable remarks about their fellow Muggle-born and half-blooded students over the years and, while that didn’t necessarily mean he supported Voldemort, his comments did serve as a strong indicator of his political leanings.

Draco was jolted back to the present at that moment as a dark-haired girl moved hurriedly past them, grumbling under her breath as she readjusted her armful of books. His heart skipped a beat and, without even thinking, he’d turned after her and exclaimed, “Pansy!”

Pansy stopped in her tracks and looked over her shoulder, eyes narrowing quizzically as they assessed Draco and Daphne’s patch of wall.

“What are you _doing_?” Daphne hissed in his ear, her fingers digging painfully into his arm. “We’re meant to stick to the plan!”

“This’ll save us some time in the long run,” he hissed back, his eyes still trained on the raven-haired witch. “I don’t care what the rest of you say; we might as well get Pans out of here too.”

“You don’t even know if—” Daphne’s words cut off into a growl as Draco yanked himself out of her grip, taking several decisive steps away from the wall.

“Did you just call out to me?” Pansy asked, frowning down at him in half-confusion, half-irritation. “If you have a message to pass along, hurry up, would you?”

Maintaining his character, Draco blinked up at her (being shorter than Pansy Parkinson was just _bizarre_ ) and squeaked, “I’m Andrew Perks… Ravenclaw.”

She raised an eyebrow sardonically. “Yes, I deduced as much,” she said, nodding towards his tie. “What do you want, Perks? Be quick.”

Arriving beside him, Daphne jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. “Come on, _Perks_ ,” she said with gritted teeth, her face deliberately turned away from Pansy. “We have _other things_ to do.”

Draco closed his eyes, trying to think. He needed to say something, needed to do something to reveal it was him, that it could only be him.

Pansy sighed long-sufferingly, readjusting her books once more before turning away. “Look, I really don’t have time for this. I have places to be, so—”

“‘ _Love comforteth like sunshine after rain, but_ _Lust’s_ _effect is tempest after sun_ ’.”

Pansy whipped back around. “ _What did you say_?” she whispered, a hand rising to cover her mouth.

Opening his eyes, Draco stared at her intently as he continued, “‘ _Love’s gentle spring doth always fresh remain, Lust’s winter comes ere summer half be done_ ’.”

The books clattered to the ground as Pansy leaned closer and seized his arm, her eyes wide and filled with emotion. “I don’t—is that _you_ , Draco?”

He inclined his chin. “‘ _Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton_ _dies_ —’”

And then, she joined him. “‘— _Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies_ ’. Oh, fuck— _fuck_!” Her eyes had teared up—that strange sight was enough to tell Draco that things were not well at all in Pansy Parkinson’s world—and she looked about to hug him, though she stopped herself just in time.

Swallowing hard, Pansy's attention shifted to Daphne as she tried to determine the identity of the other brunette boy. “And… and you’re—”

“It doesn’t matter who this is, not right now.” Draco interrupted, ignoring Daphne’s indignant tut—but it wasn’t as if Pansy would be overcome with joy to see her, after all. “Come with us, Pans. We can get you out of the castle. You’ll be safe.”

She blinked at him, flustered. “What do you— _now_? Why are you even here? I thought that maybe—”

“Look,” Daphne interjected, glancing pointedly at Draco’s wristwatch, “we don’t have time for this, Parkinson. If you’re going to come with us, you need to do so _now_. This is your _only_ chance.”

Draco was about to complain about Daphne’s abruptness but then he noticed the time too. “Ah, shit, you’re right. Pans—”

“But, Dra— _Perks_ ,” Pansy lowered her voice, her eyes travelling to Draco’s left forearm. “Safe where?”

Draco saw the anxiety on her face and understood. “Not _there_ , Pans. I’ve left all that behind me.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, alighting with unvoiced questions.

Draco he raised a hand to stop her before she could speak. “Now’s not the time for us to catch up. I can tell you more later, if you come. But Pans, you have to tell us: what do you want to do?”

She leant closer, her voice urgent in his ear. “Tracey and Blaise are still here, Draco. I can’t leave Tracey here by herself, she... I mean...”

Draco frowned. “What’s going on with Tracey, Pans?”

Pansy bit her lip, shaking her head. “No, it’s nothing,” she said unconvincingly. “I just can’t leave her, not when Millie and Daphne have already been pulled from school.”

Daphne—who was out of earshot and hadn’t heard this—sighed exasperatedly. “Come _on_!” She raised her voice pointedly. “I need to use _the loo_ , Perks.”

Draco kept his eyes on Pansy. “Okay... do you know where Tracey is right now?”

Pansy nodded. “Yeah, I—”

“Good. Look, don’t worry about Blaise; it’s is being taken care of. Do you think you can get yourself and Tracey back here within the next twenty minutes?”

For a moment Pansy looked unsure but then she nodded, setting her jaw determinedly. “I’ll hurry.”

Draco jerked his chin. ”Meet us in that alcove down the end. If we’re not there, we will be. Just wait, alright?”

“I’ll hurry!” she said again, glancing at Daphne’s impatient figure questioningly before spinning on her heel and sprinting away, leaving her scatter of books behind.

“This isn’t good,” Daphne informed him in a low voice as she dragged him toward the toilets. “The other two have already fallen behind schedule—Salazar knows what’s going on there—and now _you’re_ straying from the plan. If today falls through because of you, I’ll murder you, Malfoy.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know why you’re so bothered. I know you don’t think much of Pansy, but I thought you and Tracey were friends.”

Daphne rolled her eyes as she pushed open the toilet door. “Of course we’re friends, but we’re here to get _Blaise_. It’s already complicated enough getting _one_ person out of the castle.” After checking there were no occupants in the stalls, she turned her back to him, casting locking and silencing charms to prevent any interruptions.

Draco watched incredulously as she calmly moved through these actions. “You aren’t interested in getting your other friends out of danger when you’ve got the opportunity to? Cersei… I honestly don’t understand you sometimes, Greengrass.”

Daphne pursed her lips before slipping into a cubicle. “I never said...” Her words faded. “The others won’t like this, you know,” she called over the wall. “They might not even let them come along with us. Did you even think about that before you decided to play the hero?”

Draco swallowed the second draught, his insides roiling with both potion and anxiety as he realised how little common sense he’d exercised in his moment of impulsivity. He was supposed to be a Slytherin, not some deranged Gryffindor-Hufflepuff hybrid.

When they both re-emerged from their cubicles, Daphne’s expression seemed almost conciliatory, though it was difficult to know for certain when she bore a stranger’s face. “They’ll have to wear our Humdrum Cloak, you know,” she said finally. “But I don’t know if it will fit over the both of them.”

Draco bit his lip. “Fuck, I didn’t think of that. You’ll have to enlarge it.”

She frowned, perplexed. “Why can’t you? It’s not a difficult spell.”

“Prearranged magical restrictions,” he said evasively.

She raised a dubious eyebrow. “I see.” Draco couldn’t see how she could. “I’m not sure how enlarging it will impact the other spells those Weasleys have applied.”

“It may require continuous disillusioning as we move.”

“Yes, because _that_ won’t draw attention. It won't work.”

“What else can we do?” Draco demanded.

“Perhaps Tonks will know. They’ll need to be taken to the Muggle Studies office to be questioned, just like Blaise. I hope you know you’re still taking the blame for this, Malfoy.”

“I’m aware.”

“In the meantime, we’re going to go back and do what we’re supposed to do,” she said firmly. “If the other two come back and we’re still waiting for Nott and Weasley to come by with Blaise, you’ll have to take care of them yourself.”

They returned to the hall, moving slowly along as they scoured the groups of students. Draco noticed the tenseness in Daphne’s frame and felt a twinge of sympathy for her. Perhaps she was insufferable, but she was also very concerned for their mutual friend.

“It’ll be fine,” he said quietly. “He’ll be here soon.”

Daphne chewed on her lip—rather unlike her—and nodded. Once they got back to their previous spot, Daphne leaned against the wall beside him and regarded him with thoughtful eyes. “You’re different.”

It didn’t seem like an insult but Draco stiffened all the same. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“We might not be close but we’ve been in the same house for seven years, Malfoy, and all that time, I’ve never known you to be particularly invested in the wellbeing of anyone beyond yourself and your family. But now, now you seem to be best friends with _Theodore Nott_ of all people along with a bunch of blood-traitors, and you’re planning break-ins and going around trying to save people and... and you came to our house and offered sanctuary... to _me_.”

Draco wasn’t sure how to address all of her comments, but he managed to return her gaze levelly. “I’ve always prioritised what I’ve found most important,” he said. “That hasn’t changed.”

Dissatisfied with these remarks, Daphne’s brow furrowed. “Yes, but—”

He grabbed her arm to silence her. “ _There_!”

Daphne leaned forward to peer around him. “Is it Blaise?”

“Pansy and Tracey.”

Pained, Daphne’s eyes pressed closed. Then, to Draco’s surprise, she took a deep breath and pulled her wand from her sleeve. “Here.”

“ _What_?”

“Like I said before: I’m staying here and doing my job,” she said. “You might have your own priorities, but this is mine.”

“My priorities don’t require taking your wand away!” Draco hissed, glancing between the alcove and Daphne. His hand hovered by his pocket, where his own wand was hiding—and was supposed to remain hidden unless completely necessary.

Daphne pulled the cloak from her satchel with her other hand and tossed it to Draco. Draco caught it, but continued to stare at the proffered wand with reluctance.

“You'll need to take it if you want to resize this or protect yourself," Daphne said calmly. "Besides, I made sure to bring a spare along.” She bent down for a moment before straightening triumphantly, a second wand clutched in her hand. The wand wasn’t Astoria’s.

Draco assumed that Daphne either had two of her own, or had brought a family heirloom with her to Almach Cottage. “Who’s is that?”

“My mother’s,” Daphne said, her voice tight, “it rolled under the table before the Lestranges took them. It must have slipped their minds to take our wands away, I suppose.”

Draco took the offering reluctantly. It still didn’t seem right, not when he had his own wand on his person. Was it really worth keeping it hidden away, even if Daphne had a back-up?

Daphne seemed to think his hesitation was for different reasons. “I’m not moving until it’s time,” she told him. “Go, Malfoy. I’ll either see you back here, or I’ll see in you in the Room.”

Draco nodded, then turned and moved quickly in the direction of the alcove. Halfway there, he stopped and returned to Daphne.

He waited for three witches to pass her spot before hissing. _“Finite_!”

“Oh, for the love of—what do you want _now_?” she demanded in irritation.

“Give me your Polyjuice too..”

She frowned. “Why?”

“New plan,” Draco told her. “I’ll put one of them goes under the cloak and give the other the potion.”

“This is ridiculous,” she told him with gritted teeth as she handed the vial over, “but it’s better than you ruining the magic placed on that cloak. However—”

“Yes, yes. When the others find out, I'll tell them it's all my fault.It’s all my fault." He paused. "Thanks, Greengrass.” Not waiting for a reply, he spun around and strode towards the alcove once more.

Pansy was still panting from exertion when Draco arrived; she had never been the athletic sort. Tracey, on the other hand, was in the habit of going for early morning runs almost year-round and seemed completely unaffected by their race through the castle. Draco could only hope that their hurrying about hadn’t attracted the wrong kind of attention.

Tracey’s dark eyes fixed warily upon Draco as he approached them. “Who is this, Pansy?”

“Perks is a friend of mine,” Pansy told her, “and he’s going to get us out of here. Blaise, too.”

Tracey did not look pleased. “This is a _child_ , Pansy. Forgive me if I’m not particularly convinced.”

“Well, Davis, you’re free to make your own arrangements, by all means,” Draco said coolly.

Tracey didn’t move, but then, Draco hadn’t really expected her to, despite his retort. She regarded him for a moment then said, “You have a plan, I assume?”

 _Yes, but it was never this_ , Draco thought to himself dryly. “It’s taken care of.” He paused, feeling guilty as he met Pansy’s gaze. “Pans, look, there’s—there’s others who came here today, not just that other Ravenclaw boy I was with. Getting the two of you out today wasn’t exactly a part of the plan, and when the rest of our group finds out, they’re not going to be pleased.”

“What are you trying to say?” she demanded, cheeks colouring. “If you’re going to just turn around and change your mind like—”

“I’m not!” he interrupted sharply. “I’m _not_ changing my mind. I’m warning you in advance. They’ll want to talk to you before they agree to help you, same as they’re doing with Blaise.”

“You came to get Blaise out,” Pansy realised, and it was obvious that she was trying to keep the hurt out of her voice. “Just Blaise.”

Draco shook his head. “I wanted, _want_ to help you too. It’s not all up to me though.”

“I see,” she said shortly, her eyes fixed on the wall.

“These people you mentioned,” Tracey spoke up, “they’re not His, are they?”

It seemed more a statement than a question. Even though he’d confirmed as much to her earlier, Pansy’s eyes were intent as she watched Draco. “They’re not,” he conceded.

Tracey nodded, unsurprised. “I assume they will want to gauge our loyalties, whether we’ll be an asset? If you truly want to help us, then wouldn’t it be worth telling us what these people are looking to hear?”

“They’ll be providing you with sanctuary,” Draco said, “and—as I said—these are not the Dark Lords’ people. There are certain ideals they won’t appreciate hearing, at the same time, they’re not stupid. Don’t try to pass yourself off as a saint unless you actually are one. They’ll respond better to honesty.” He made sure to mention this last part, knowing that this would be the most challenging element for his fellow Slytherins.

He reached into his school satchel and removed the Humdrum Cloak. “One of you will need to go under this so that I can sneak you out. It will keep you from being noticed.”

“What about the other?” Tracey asked, eyes narrowed.

“Since you won’t be able to both fit, the other will need to take Polyjuice.”

Tracey wrinkled her nose distastefully.

Draco glanced between the two of them thoughtfully then said, “I think you should go under the cloak, Pansy.”

“Why?” The two witches inquired simultaneously.

“The magic placed upon the cloak serves to detract unwanted attention,” Draco explained. “I believe I’ll be more able to resist this if Pansy’s under it, since we’ve a closer relationship. I'll have more of a motive to fight the compulsions.” He passed Tracey the vial of Polyjuice. “When you take this, you’ll be transformed into a boy like me. We’ll have to do the necessary transfigurations so that you can pass as a Ravenclaw.”

Tracey held the vial up to her eyes, staring at the sludgy concoction with reluctance.

“Get to it, Davis,” Draco snapped. “If you want to leave, prove it.”

She shot him a glare then uncorked the vial and downed it. A moment later, her face screwed up and she rocked forward, hands on knees. Draco was glad that he’d always imbibed Polyjuice in private. It was hideous to go through, and downright disturbing to watch. Beside him, Pansy stared at Tracey’s bubbling, warping figure in fascinated revulsion.

“That’s—your friend looked like this,” Pansy realised as Tracey straightened once her transformation was complete.

Tracey blinked at Draco in confusion, her hands trailing gingerly over her face and newly cropped hair. Her eyes turned assessing; Draco deduced that she’d realised Andrew Perks was a falsity. “Who are you really?”

“Best if you find out later,” Draco returned dismissively, utilising Daphne’s wand to perform the necessary transfigurations upon Tracey’s uniform. He paused, regarding the girl’s skirt. “Huh.”

“Oh, let me,” Pansy huffed, elbowing him aside. Smiling ruefully at his friend, Draco moved willingly. “Honestly.”

When Tracey was ready, Pansy turned to Draco with an apprehensive expression which carried the smallest tinge of excitement. “It’s time, then?”

“First we have to go to the Muggle Studies office.”

“You’re taking us to Carrow’s office,” Pansy said flatly.

Draco nodded. “I have no ill intentions, I promise. One of the others is there, waiting. She’s the one you’ll have to speak to first.”

Pansy continued to look doubtful. Draco couldn’t really blame her; since she knew nothing of his recent history, the likelihood of him deserting his former cause would seem utterly outlandish.

“Where is Carrow?” Tracey asked suspiciously.

“Carrow is currently... indisposed. We won’t be running into her.”

Still looking somewhat sceptical, Pansy stepped beneath the cloak, blending into the shades and shadows of the alcove. Draco’s brow furrowed as an image arose in his mind of a Jacobean prodigy house surrounded by thick, overgrown gardens. He didn’t know why he was wasting time standing in this alcove; he was supposed to be at that house—he needed to be _inside_. There were important things that he needed to take care of there. At that moment, it didn’t matter to him in the slightest that it was a Lestrange house he was visualising, the very same one which had been reclaimed by Bellatrix, Rodolphus and Rabastan after they’d first been freed from Azkaban. Desperation continued to rise within him. He was in the wrong place; he needed to go; he—

A hand clasped his, startling him. Draco looked down, blinking at the interlinked fingers in bemusement. Pansy. He’d almost forgotten.

Draco cleared his throat. “Come on... _Smith_ ,” he said to Tracey. “When we walk, perhaps look at me or look straight ahead, but avoid eye-contact with other people as much as you can."

Tracey nodded and they set off. Draco kept a hold of Pansy’s hand, using it to keep himself grounded as he led them towards the Muggle Studies office. Thoughts of the house continued to plague him all the while, causing him to feel queasy and with anxiety. These were all magically-induced sensations and he knew it, but his awareness didn’t stop their effectiveness. He didn’t know why he was being compelled to go there of all places; the Lestranges were the among the last people he wished to see. He had no fondness for the house itself or the grounds. It was inexplicable.

If Daphne was still disillusioned by the wall, Draco didn’t think to search for her; he was too preoccupied with trying to get to where he needed to be whilst the magic suffused by the Humdrum Cloak tried to drive him away. Later, he would realise that if she had been there, she would likely have given a signal of some sort.

When they stepped into the Muggle Studies office, Pansy pulled off the cloak and sank into a hard-backed chair. “Is anyone supposed to be here?”

“Yes,” Draco admitted, leaning against the closed door. “I think they’ve gone to the seventh floor without us.”

“The seventh floor,” Pansy repeated stiffly.

“Yes.”

Pansy shook her head adamantly. “Oh, no. _No_. I’m not coming, D—I’m _not_ coming.”

Tracey glanced between Draco and Pansy in confusion. “Why—what’s wrong?”

“I know what’s on that floor, and I will not debase myself by flinging myself at _their feet_ and begging for sanctuary!” Pansy growled, ignoring Tracey. “ _Our_ sort isn’t allowed within their precious haven and I’m not going to humiliate myself by protesting the matter. I’m not sure what’s caused this strange turnaround of yours, but it seems to have addled your brains!”

“What are you talking about?” Tracey tried again.

Pansy turned to her, flapping a hand in Draco’s direction. “He—he’s intending on us sequestering with a bunch of self-righteous Gryffindors!” Tracey frowned, and opened her mouth to respond.

“For fuck’s sake; do you honestly think I’m that stupid?” Draco snapped at Pansy before Tracey had a chance to speak. “Does our friendship truly mean that little that you can’t trust me in this?”

“ _Trust you_?” Pansy fumed. “It was ridiculous for me to have come this far! I haven’t seen or heard from you since December and suddenly, you seem to have completely forgone your previous ideals and you’re rollicking about with Dumbledore’s lot.”

Draco grit his teeth, wishing he could simply tell the truth. “There’s a lot more to this than you think, Pans. I can’t tell you anything yet, but I need you to trust me now. I can’t lose anymore—”

 _No. Mother is_ not _dead and neither is Harry. Stop being ridiculous_.

Pansy was staring at him questioningly. Tracey was assessing him too, a troubled expression blatant on her boy-face. She looked almost ready to run.

“Perhaps you’ve been away from school too long that it’s fucked with your memory. We’re not their sort and they’re not ours, either.”

“Listen to me, would you? I told you that we’re leaving the castle, didn’t I? So long as my—my contact approves, you’ll be coming with me.”

“We’ll go,” Tracey spoke up. “Put the cloak back on, Pansy.”

Pansy looked torn. “But—"

“You _know_ that I am prepared to take any opportunity to leave this castle,” her eyes—the boy’s eyes—bore into Draco’s. “ _Any_ opportunity.”

Pansy got to her feet and retrieved the cloak from where she’d flung it.

“You don’t have to come,” Tracey said softly.

Pansy snorted. “What option do I really have?” She turned back to Draco. “I expect a full explanation of everything, okay? You owe me that much.”

While Draco wasn’t prepared to tell her _everything_ , he’d be able to tell her enough to satisfy her. “I can do that.”

“Good. Shall we then?” Pansy threw the cloak over herself and a moment later, Draco felt her squeeze his hand once more. Pushing back the images of the Lestrange house, he grasped hold of Tracey’s robes and tugged her towards the door. The hall was eerily empty. At this time of the day, it should have been a flurry of activity, but not a soul was to be seen.

Something had gone wrong.

“This isn’t good,” Draco muttered. “Move quickly.”

Picking up their pace, they making their way down the hall as quietly as they could.

They turned the corner and came face-to-face with Alecto Carrow.

“ _Accio Humdrum Cloak_.” The cloak flew off Pansy, she and Tracey staring at their presumed professor with pale faces. A pair of furious mud-coloured eyes turned on Draco. Either Tonks had really improved her acting skills or she was severely ticked off. “This way.”

Until they were all safely back within the Room, it simply wasn’t worth trying to argue or explain anything, not to Tonks, and not to Pansy and Tracey. Hiding his contriteness behind a blank-faced expression, Draco trudged after his cousin.

 

 

 

While Draco hadn't been there to witness the discussion between Tonks and each Slytherin, whatever they'd told her had evidently granted them safe passage from the castle. Upon returning to the Room his cousin had allowed her disguise to fall away, startling both girls terribly; both had believed that Alecto Carrow was leading them to some ominous demise. Tonks had spoken to Pansy and Tracey individually, taking them into a separate enclave of the Room which Neville had brought into being. The harsh expression on her face was reserved for Draco alone it seemed, and he was thankful for that. He didn't want Pansy and Tracey to be blamed for his own recklessness; they'd have more need to prove themselves than the average runaway, after all.

No one spoke to Draco as he waited, not even Theo, who seemed to be deep in conversation with Charlie, both looking rather serious for people who'd evidently completed their arm of the mission successfully. He assumed he would be facing his cousin's wrath sooner or later, and everyone else knew it.

The Polyjuice had worn off during Tonks' interviews and, if Tracey had been shocked to see Draco standing there, it hadn't shown in her face. In fact, she'd barely looked at him after she'd noticed Daphne standing there beside Blaise. Watching the girls' joyful reunion, one would never think that Daphne had been protesting her friend's rescue.

Pansy hadn't gone to join them when she returned from speaking to Tonks, moving to stand by Draco instead and slipping her hand into his. In the past he'd found her tactile nature smothering, but Draco welcomed it now. When Daphne had noticed Pansy standing there with Draco, she had caught the other girl's eye. Pansy stared back a moment, then had nodded at the blonde. Daphne had nodded back to her, seeming to mouth the words "thank you" from over Tracey's shoulder as the two girls hugged one another.

Theo continued to hover close to Charlie rather than moving towards the other seventh-years. He busied himself with arranging the cloaks and satchels, seeming to wish to blend into the background and remain unnoticed. When it came time to return, he volunteered to stay back with Neville, Fred and George, who would be returning Alecto Carrow to the first floor. The twins had been excited about something— _much_  too excited—about something which had occurred in Draco's absence. Daphne had been the one who told him that they'd had to create a diversion so that the halls could be cleared.

"It's a good thing those two actually made those contingency plans they were bragging about," she said smugly, "otherwise you'd have been on your own getting back to Almach. You're lucky, Malfoy."

 

 

 

Alecto Carrow opened her eyes and blinked blearily. Her head ached—in fact, her whole body ached—but she had no idea why.

 _Why am I sitting on the floor_?

Straining to recall her movements, she raised a chubby hand to wipe at her eyes. She could remember having a bitch of a morning which had awakened an unappeasable thirst for brandy and then…then, nothing. She couldn’t even remember unstopping her decanter. Had she blacked out? Surely she hadn’t had _that_ much to drink.

“Say, wha’ choo playing at, Ally?” a voice—much too loud—rang down from above. "I've been dealing with all kinds of shit for _hours_ and you've been drinking the whole time! You can’t let the students see you lollin’ about like this. We’ve got standards to maintain around here, sis.”

She raised her head to aim a squinty glare at her brother. “I’m not lolling about. What do you mean, shit?"

Amycus stared at her incredulously. "I mean someone blew up the fucking Quidditch pitch during the lunch hour, woman. S'why lessons have been cancelled all afternoon."

"Don't you speak to me like that, I—oi!” She stared past him, attention diverted by the scrawl on her office door. Yes—that she could recall.

Frowning, Amycus swung around to see what she was gawping at. “Ah, fuck me. This day never ends! Them bleedin’ kids don’t know when to stop, do they? We’ll just—”

“Hang on.” Alecto shook her head. “Wait… no—I remember now—I came across some old biddy standing by me door and she was—”

“What, at ‘ogwarts? Nah.. was kids, Ally..”

“Don’t act like I’m being barmy,” Alecto growled. “I saw her, I did.”

“Fine, fine.” Amycus reached down and pulled his sister to her feet. “So where’s she at? She do somethin’ t’you?” He pulled his lips back in a grin. "Did she drink you under the table?"

She whacked him in frustration. "Fuck off. I dunno what she did to me, but—but she’s the one what wrote _that_ , Amycus.” Alecto’s mouth open and closed a few times and then she shook her head. “She had some…some Muggle paint can or summat but… she went away, I guess.” Her cheeks coloured and she looked away before continuing reluctantly, “And then… and then _Gilderoy Lockhart_ was here.”

“Lockhart?” Amycus repeated, tone disbelieving. “Thought he was in St Mungo’s for good, gone loopy and all.”

“Think I’d know what Lockhart looks like!” Alecto said hotly. “I’ve got all his books, y’know.”

“I know that—course I know that—you never used to shut up about that smarmy git.”

“He was never smarmy. And he was _here_ , damnit!”

“Well, if he was, then I’d reckon he’d be in cahoots with that old woman you think you saw, Ally.” Amycus jerked his chin toward the graffiti on the door. “Means he’d have helped with that.”

For a moment Alecto wanted to argue with him, wanted to insist that _Gilderoy Lockhart_ would never do such a thing. But then she considered the fact that she’d woken up alone with no recollection of what had happened to her over the last few hours, and had to admit that no gentleman would leave a woman propped against a wall unconscious. Knowing that, it was harder to defend him.

For the next few minutes, brother and sister stood side by side in silence, scrutinising the yellow words before them before Alecto raised her wand. Seven unsuccessful attempts later, they sought out Severus who, to their disappointment, curtly informed them that they should be more than capable of dealing with the matter themselves, and if they could not, they’d simply have to visit the library and consult the relevant literature.

For two more days, the door would continue to bear the message:

 

 

 

> _Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear—not absence of fear._
> 
> _Don't let the fuckers get you down._
> 
> _OotP_

 

 

Back at Almach Cottage, things went to shit once again.

Fred, George and Theo hadn't returned from Hogwarts yet, but were expected back at the house shortly. Meanwhile, Andromdeda, Tonks and Bill were speaking privately with Blaise, Pansy and Tracey. In the living room, Daphne was curled up on one of the couches, dozing lightly as she waited for her friends to return. Astoria sat by their feet, reading one of Tonks’s Muggle novels. Nearby, Charlie and Draco were playing a casual game of chess as they waited for everyone to return.

Their quiet atmosphere was interrupted abruptly by a sharp demand.

“Why the fuck has Malfoy got a wand?”

Draco jerked his hand away from the chessboard, pressing it tightly against his pocket. Slowly, he raised his eyes.

The Weasley twins had returned, though Theo didn't seem to be with them. Fred stood in the doorway, arms crossed and glaring. Draco could see George behind him, looking equally furious.

“It was mine,” Daphne spoke up from the couch, looking fully alert as she stared the two redheads down. “I’ve got two and I lent him one of them before we split up. He’s already given it back to me, though I don’t see why that's any concern of yours.”

Astoria frowned at this but remained silent.

“No.” Fred shook his head stubbornly. “I don’t know what story he sold you, Greengrass, but Malfoy’s carrying his own—unless he nicked someone else’s while you were wandering around the school.”

While Draco didn't react to this, internally, he was trying to work out just when he had been so careless. From the corner of his eye, he saw Daphne’s eyes flick to him. She raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“He’s not meant to have one,” George piped up as the twins moved forward into the room. They loomed over Draco, effectively trapping him in a corner. “Mum said as much, that the Order couldn’t trust him with magic. And for good reason, the sneaky piece of shit,” he added snidely.

Draco gazed up at the two of them expressionlessly. Daphne was still watching him from the corner of her eye, as if waiting to see how he’d react. She’d respond accordingly, he knew it; despite their quarrels, Slytherin loyalty persevered.

“I saw him with it, Charlie,” Fred continued as he eyed his older brother; he seemed confused by Charlie's lack of response. “Check his robes and see for yourself.”

“I’m not going to check his robes,” Charlie said calmly.

“We will, then,” Fred said, “because I definitely saw him pocket a wand.”

As Fred and George began to move closer, Draco interrupted. “Don’t you dare put your paws on me, Weasley—"

“ _Petrificus Totalus_!”

“ _Finite_.” The spell was lifted off him almost immediately.

The twins stopped in their tracks, both wearing outraged expressions.

“What on earth’s your problem, Charlie?” George demanded, wand clutched tightly in his fist.

“Leave him alone, both of you,” Charlie said firmly, getting to his feet. He wasn’t as tall as the two of them but with his muscular arms and intense expression he made for an imposing figure.

Fred shook his head, protesting, “He’s got—”

“I know he’s got a wand.”

“ _What_? You _know_? What the sodding fuck?” Fred growled. “You’re just letting him wander around with it after all he’s done? I can’t believe this.”

“Bloody hell, Charlie.” George rubbed at his eyes in frustration. “He’s a _Death Eater_ ; I would’ve thought you’d know better.”

“Whether I have a wand or not is none of your business,” Draco interrupted coldly.

“It damn well is, what with your history of trying to kill our friends and family!” George retorted. “Dumbledore and Moody are dead due to you and your lot—”

“They’re _not_ my—”

“—and Ted Tonks is too. Bill’s fucking mauled because of you! Not to mention what your father did to Ginny.”

“It’s interesting,” Draco commented before he could stop himself, “how everyone seems to forget the other Weasley when they’re reciting all my sins. I’ve always thought Ronald to be quite useless myself, but I didn’t realise he was that much of a pariah within his own family.”

“Fuck you, Malfoy.” George snarled, looking ready to hex him.

But it was Fred who surged forward with wand in hand, face contorted with anger. “Shut your smart-arsed mouth. You’ve fucked around with our family _far too much_ , Malfoy—oh, PISS _OFF_ , CHARLIE!” he screamed, as Charlie wrapped his arms around Fred’s waist yanked him backwards. “Why are you defending _him_? Look at what he did to Bill!” He waved an arm toward the doorway. “LOOK AT BILL’S FACE, DAMN YOU!”

They all swung to see Bill standing in the doorway, his expression mutinous, lips pressed tightly together. For a second no one spoke, and even Fred ceased his struggling.

“Bill—"

“I don’t need you to fight my battles for me, Fred—and that goes for you too!” Bill shot at George, who seemed to be trying to work out who he should be brawling with. “It’s for me and Malfoy to sort out. Draco—” Stomach lurching, Draco lifted his head to meet Bill’s eyes. “—Come on. We better take care of this now. Charlie, would you—”

“Yeah.”

Bill nodded then spun on his heel, striding briskly down the hall without looking back.

Draco stood on shaky legs and skirted past his housemates and the cluster of Weasleys to follow.

“I don’t believe this,” Fred was muttering. “I just—what has _happened_ to this family?”

“Come on, Fred,” Draco heard Charlie say gently, “let's go have a cuppa in the kitchen. You as well, George.”

Their words faded into the background as Draco followed Bill into Andromeda’s room to partake in the conversation he’d been avoiding so long.

 

 

 

Draco's talk with Bill was a long one, stilted and awkward at first. In the privacy of Draco's bedroom, Bill allowed him plenty of time to fumble through his much-delayed apologies. The whole process was rather frustrating for Draco, who knew he should have been able to deliver something a little better than what he'd managed; he'd practiced before, time and time again. But it wasn't as easy face-to-face. Under the scrutiny of Bill’s soft blue eyes, all those rehearsed words had fallen away.

Bill received his apology without hesitation or reprobation.The old version of Draco would have been thrilled by this, but the new one found it hard to accept. He didn't deserve Bill's kindness. Perhaps he hadn’t invited Greyback into the castle, but he was indirectly responsible for everything which had eventuated that night. Draco knew it well, and the other Weasleys knew it too. No matter what Charlie said to the twins, they and the rest of their family wouldn’t be as quick to move past things as Bill and Charlie had.

“I don’t understand,” Draco murmured, turning his gaze to his hands because looking at Bill was simply too overwhelming. “How can you just...”

Bill stroked his chin as he considered his response. “A lot of people wouldn’t understand, Draco. Fleur—she knows I come here a lot and she doesn’t understand how I can stand being near you after what happened to me.” He sighed. “Afterwards... I was angry for a time, you know? Angry... and scared, too. Curse-breaking carries its risks, but Greyback's attack was my first near-death experience. It's been almost a year since it's happened, and this war getting worse and worse has helped put things in perspective. I got off lucky, all things considered. I wasn't rendered a slave to the moon. Plus, I look rather more dangerous now, hmm?” He winked.

Draco couldn’t muster a smile.

“What matters most to me is what you’re doing now,” Bill continued. “I know it wasn’t your choice to be here in the beginning, but you took control of your situation. You could have wiled the war away in your room and made life a living hell for ‘Dromeda and Tonks, but you didn’t. Instead, you’ve shown regret for your past actions and tried to attend to your prejudices. You've put your life on the line more than once, demonstrating you’re more than Lucius Malfoy’s cowardly brat. From the looks of it, you’ve been trying to make amends for some of the shitty things you’ve done.”

“The list is long,” Draco responded dully.

“The Cannons still try their darnedest even though they’re doomed to lose.”

Draco stared at him blankly, too worn out to parse the reference properly.

Bill shrugged. “Just because the chances are against you doesn’t mean you do nothing. I can’t say whether Charlie will be able to get through to Fred and George. Our family’s full of stubborn bastards and those two are no exception. And Ron holds a grudge like none other. Of course, he's probably got the most reason to out of all of us.”

“Don’t you feel as if you’re betraying your family by letting me off so easily?” Draco asked.

"I suppose it could be construed that way but no, I don't," Bill told him. "If I thought you still posed a risk or that you intended any of them harm, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now. Being loyal to my family is about more than carrying the same grudges and reacting in the same ways. Whether I chose to move on from what happened to me and the part you played in it or not, it's  _my_ choice."

"There's more to it than simply what happened to you though, isn't there? I almost killed your brother, you know," Draco countered. "The poisoned mead may not have been meant for him, but it's not like I placed it outside Slughorn's door without consideration of the consequences."

Bill sighed. "Yes, that's true. You know I'm a Curse Breaker, don't you, Draco?"

"Of course I do."

"Before I came back to work at Gringotts, before I was stationed in Egypt, I spent some time working everyday cases in Cornwall. It was dreary, disinteresting stuff, and when the Egypt job became available, I jumped at the opportunity. While the jobs in Cornwall were mundane for the most part, my stint taught me a lot about people and how they react to the world around them. There are so many motives behind the things that people do, and not every decision is made with a level head or with a clear understanding of the consequences. Not every case involved a perpetrator with a black heart and a lack of remorse."

Draco frowned. "What has this got to do with me?"

"You're seventeen, right?"

"Eighteen in a few months."

Bill waved a hand dismissively. "Point is, for all you've gone through, you're just barely an adult now. I'm pissed that your stupidity almost got my brother killed—of course I am—but I also know it could just as easily have harmed someone else. It happens in my line of work all the time, people getting caught in the middle of family rivalries and feuds over inheritances and what-not. People do shitty, ridiculous things when they're desperate, and I  _know_ that you were desperate."

"He said he'd kill me and my family," Draco said quietly.

Bill nodded. "And, if you weren't under threat, if you weren't given that absurd task of yours, would you still have done it? Would you have decided one day that you were going to poison Albus Dumbledore?"

"What?" Draco spluttered. "Of course not."

"I could simply assume that you're exactly the same person who took that Mark, or the same person who spent all his school years teasing my brother for being poor. I could assume that who you've been is who'll you'll aways be, that everything is absolute and that change and progress is an idealistic dream. But to do that goes against my nature; it's a limiting way to live and see the world. Fred and George may think that way to an extent, but they're eight years younger than me, you know? There's a lot they haven't seen, haven't done, which I have. It's only understandable that our perspectives would be somewhat different."

Fred and George were gone when Draco and Bill finally returned to the living room. It was a relief; Draco had had enough excitement for one day and wasn't interested in anymore altercations. Bill, on the other hand, decided he might as well pay a visit to the Burrow to try and smooth things over. Charlie had sent Draco a weary smile, clapping him on the shoulder before setting out with his older brother—for moral support, he’d announced. By this point, everyone save for Andromeda had retired to their bedrooms to nap before dinner. Draco went and joined his aunt in the kitchen, helping her construct a meal to suit the house’s unexpected number of occupants.

Dinner had been held earlier than usual, the table stretched to enormity as it accommodated them all. It was a strange affair, a mixture of older, pre-established routines and starkly new ones. The conversation between Theo and Draco fell by the wayside as the former noticed the stares of the other Slytherins and fell silent. Andromeda, sensing his discomfort, made an effort to re-engage him with limited success. Theo would likely need to resume his course of potions to counteract his anxiety, Draco realised, resolving to reject the old hierarchies within his house. Things would be different now, he decided; he would make sure of it.

Towards the end of the meal, Pansy began to shoot significant looks at him from the opposite side of the table. Merlin, at times she could be utterly indefatigable. Draco shook his head at her, mouthing “not now”; recounting the last few months of his life could wait until after he’d at least had some sleep. 

Of course, his mind and body were not congruous when it came to shutting down for the night. 

He was still reading when she appeared in the doorway of his room.

“Alright, Pans?”

“Not ready to sleep yet,” she said as she slipped inside, twirling a strand of raven hair around her finger. “I thought we could catch up a bit if you’re not tired. Don't worry; you can update me properly tomorrow. I've just missed you.”

Draco set down his book and pulled back a section of blanket with a wry smile. “Get in.”

He tried to pay little heed to the way she sashayed across the expanse of the room towards him, but a part of him did wonder. They’d always had fun together. Would things be the same between them now?

His prick began to stiffen in anticipation, and when Pansy climbed onto his bed he didn’t fight her advances.

Straddling him, Pansy smirked and leaned forward, catching his lips in a kiss. Her tongue slid into his mouth, flicking against his and Draco grasped a hold of her hips, pressing her petite body closer. Pansy moaned against him, rising slightly in his lap to press herself against his erection. His fingers trailed further down, squeezing the globes of her arse through her thin pyjama shorts.

Pansy’s lips were so familiar; he’d grown up kissing them, after all. He knew them so well: the shape, the feeling, the taste. But now, now they felt so inexplicably _wrong_ , and, most importantly, they didn’t belong to the person he longed for. He didn’t want her; he wanted—

Draco sighed and pulled his head away. “Sorry, Pans. We’re not doing this.”

Breathy and yearning, she stared at him in bemusement, her slightly swollen lips parted in silent question. His expression didn’t waver.

“ _Damnit_ , Draco,” she grumbled petulantly. “I’m horny, you bastard.” 

Draco drew his hands up her sides, grasping her gently by the shoulders as he shifted her from his lap and onto the bed beside him. “I don’t think I’ll be able to help you with that.”

Pansy eyed his crotch with a raised eyebrow; though his erection was wilting now, he was still half-hard. “Any particular reason why you’re suddenly turning down sex?” she asked suspiciously.

Draco closed his eyes. “There may be.” He admitted.

“What—are you… are you _waiting_ for someone?”

As if. They'd had their strange fling, but Harry had asserted his disinterest months ago. All Draco had were fantasies and his right hand.

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fuck, Pans,” he growled in exasperation. “Can’t you just… leave it?”

Her eyes widened. “You are!” she exclaimed. “Who is it?”

“ _Pans_ …”

“Fine. But you know I’ll find out eventually,” she promised slyly, then sighed. “Well, darling, this is rather unlike the Draco I remember.”

“Quite possibly,” Draco agreed self-deprecatingly. “I'm full of surprises today, aren't I?"

“No good surprises,” Pansy complained, though her tone was playful. “I used to be able to _rely_ on you! Now what am I supposed to do when I’m bored?”

“Hmm.” He fixed her with a wicked grin. “Perhaps you could persuade Daphne to come and warm your bed?”

“ _Daphne_?” Pansy cackled. “Fuck, Draco; I’d get frostbite!” She sobered and leaned forward to kiss his cheek. “Alright, alright. I think I’ll go to bed after all.”

She got to her feet and made her way to the door. Before she left she turned, fixing him with a smile that seemed to contain a mixture of fondness and melancholy. “Sweet dreams, Draco.”

“You too, Pans.”

Alone again, Draco let out a long-suffering sigh. Whatever he and Pansy had formerly enjoyed, it was done. He was no longer interested in conveniences, could no longer partake in their meaningless rendezvous. If Blaise ever showed an interest again, it would likely be the same.

Suddenly, as if a reward for his self-directed display of abstinence, his pocket began to burn. With trembling fingers, he reached into the folds of his robes and retrieved the golden coin which spelled his recompense. He tapped its surface with his wand, his voice an urgent hiss.

“ _Dark Uprisings of the Modern Age_.”

_Please, please, please._

 

**_An injured unicorn. Blackthorn and dragon heartstring. Flourish and Blotts. Pale yellow. All is well, I promise; all is well._ **

 

Exhaling, Draco flopped onto his back and cradled the coin to his chest, his eyes squeezing closed in relief. “Thank you,” he whispered—though to whom, he did not know. “All is well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco's quoting Shakespeare's Venus and Adonis (yes, it's probably super cliche of me)--but Pansy made him memorise this section when they were fourteen and it was the best idea he had at the time of proving his identity to her ;)
> 
> The first part of Tonks's graffiti is a Mark Twain quote.


	20. Domum Serpentum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around. My writing has been delayed by stupidly necessary adult things, like work.  
> Welcome to chapter twenty, a mixture of heavy shit and random banter ;)

To Draco’s infuriation—but not surprise—Harry was hardly forthcoming when it came to justifying his sudden absence.

 

**_I can’t exactly explain it to you on a charmed coin, Draco. I’ve just had things to take care of._ **

**_Things which needed you to be silent for days? I thought you were in a snit at first but it’s hard not to suspect the worst when someone goes quiet like that._ **

**_Why would I have been in a snit?_ **

**_You don’t remember what I said about Severus?_ **

**_Oh. No, it wasn’t that._ **

**_It was still insensitive for me to say, Harry. I wasn’t really thinking at the time._ **

**_Ah, but I thought everything Slytherins did was premeditated?_ **

**_Actually, it seems even Slytherins are prone to moments of impulsivity, be they words or actions._ **

**_Huh? Am I missing something?_ **

**_I can’t exactly explain it to you on a charmed coin, Potter._ **

**_Very funny. You know, I never said I wouldn’t explain. One day, we’ll catch up over beers and trade war stories. How about that?_ **

****

_As if anything like that would ever happen_ , Draco thought dryly as he read Harry’s final message.

Even if they both lived to see the end of the war—something Draco couldn’t realistically conceive—there was no point pretending that their friendship could be shaped into something greater than it currently was. When the world around them resumed some semblance of normalcy once more, they’d be tugged in different directions—both literally and metaphorically. A Voldemort-free world promised little for Draco; he would be lucky if he didn't land a stint in Azkaban for his past wrongdoings. And, if he managed the defeat, Harry would be lauded as a hero more intensely than ever before.

If Voldemort won, well.

No, such aspects of the future simply weren’t worth thinking about, Draco decided before slipping the coin back into his pocket. It was not within his constitution to cling to unrealistic hopes, to sit around and mull over what could never be attained. His father had beaten that kind of frippery out of him long ago; it was why, as a Death Eater, he had simply put his head down and carried on as best he could, rather than allow himself to become consumed by despair.

The burden which had been weighing upon Draco's psycho had been relieved somewhat by the confirmation that Harry was still alive. Unfortunately, other thoughts stubbornly persisted into the night and prevented him from succumbing to sleep for some time.

He’d had no chance to properly speak with Blaise; Daphne and Astoria had swooped upon him at their first opportunity, and Blaise had seemed in no hurry to seek Draco out. Draco refused to lower himself to trying to vie for Blaise’s attention, and so had decided to wait until the other boy retired for the night. He’d been too unhurried and had missed his chance, however; by the time Draco arrived at his door, Blaise had already erected silencing and locking charms.

They’d seen each other at dinner that night of course, nodding and shaking hands before taking their respective seats, as if they were distant acquaintances rather than former dorm-mates. All of their interactions, few as they were, had felt artificial; there had been no signs, no confirmations about how Blaise truly felt about Draco or about his new living arrangements. But trying to analyse each and every detail was futile when no one was truly acting themselves. Furthermore, there was a distance between the two of them now, a fissure which Draco had deliberately been widening since the beginning of sixth year. Blaise was clever, dangerously clever, and it had been too risky to stay close to him after he’d received the Mark.

Bearing all of this in mind, it was almost laughable that—until he and Theo had resumed their friendship, of course—Draco was still in the habit of considering his relationship with Blaise among his closest. Seeing him now, Draco realised he'd been dwelling in the past; he didn’t truly know Blaise. Perhaps he never had.

Draco managed to fall asleep eventually but his dreams were wrathful in their intensity, a troublesome and obscure amalgamation of gargantuan snakes, flashes of green spell-fire, and tiptoed ventures through a dark house which sheltered some of the most psychotic wizards of the modern age. Bellatrix’s laughter echoed through the walls, surrounding him, choking him with its relentless malevolence. When he woke up the next morning it was with a heart which still thudded with terror, his limbs tangled up in sweat-dampened sheets.

Morning was but a murmur on the horizon when he rolled out of bed to shower and dress, but when he reached the dining room Andromeda was already there. He joined her at the table and, in their shared solitude, it almost felt like it was January again, before the house had gained its fill of teenagers who’d been forced to grow up much too early. He wondered whether these early morning hours would continue to remain theirs after everyone had properly acclimatised themselves.

He knew there would be a change of dynamic about the house now that it wasn’t just Andromeda, Theo and himself. At this point, everything was in flux; Blaise, Pansy and Tracey had been so tired the day before, and Daphne and Astoria had been living with them for such a short amount of time that they were hardly settled in themselves. Even after sharing the same space for seven years, it was difficult for Draco to predict what life would be like for them all.

Andromeda appeared to have been thinking along similar lines, for she seemed to have stopped reading, and was instead staring pensively into space. After a while, she closed her book with a soft sigh and regarded Draco.

“I believe I will organise a house meeting for later this morning. There’s much to go over, and it should be done with everyone present.”

Draco set down his own book. “That sounds good.” He forced himself to meet her eyes as he continued reluctantly, “I know we came back with an unexpected number of people yesterday. I’m… I know it has caused an inconvenience.”

Andromeda raised an eyebrow, and Draco felt trapped by her level stare. “I will always welcome those in need, Draco. But you are correct that I was taken by surprise.”

“Yes, well—”

“I know only what Nymphadora and Charlie told me about yesterday. What you did was highly reckless Draco.”

Draco stiffened. “In my opinion, it was logical to—”

To his infuriation, his aunt interrupted him once more. “No, Draco. Right now, I don't want to hear your opinion. You put people at risk by deviating from a plan which was put in place for a  _reason_. You cannot do such things, not during a war, and not when there were so many people depending on your cooperation. However...” She sighed and shook her head. “I must remember that it’s my daughter’s job to berate you, not mine. You can justify your choices to her later today.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Draco responded drily.

Despite her reproval, his reaction caused her lips to twitch in a slight smile. “I told her to make sure she casts a silencing charm on whichever room she plans on yelling at you in."

“Does she…” Draco’s fingers traced over the outline of his wand. “Does she know about what happened with the Weasley twins?”

“They found out about your wand,” Andromeda conceded. “Yes, she knows about that. Fred and George have agreed to keep it quiet.  _For now_ ,” she emphasised. “I believe it took a lot of convincing from Bill and Charlie.”

Draco looked up, surprised. “I thought they’d at least end up telling their mother."

“I’m not as close with the Weasley family as some of the others are,” Andromeda said. “Our paths simply haven’t crossed much outside of the Order.” She paused thoughtfully, “But she and Charlie… well, I suppose we’ll see where that leads when the time comes. I hear he’s still planning on going back to Romania. But... I digress. The Weasleys may be a big family, but they’re a close family, and loyal to each other. They don’t take dishonesty lightly, particularly among each other.”

“Omission isn’t the exactly same as lying,” Draco argued. “Bill and Charlie were asked to keep quiet by Kingsley and Remus."

Andromeda shook her head. “A lie of omission can still be seen as a betrayal. I believe that is how Fred and George view the situation. And the infamous Malfoy-Weasley rivalry is another factor.” A sudden chuckle burst from her lips, and Andromeda waved a hand apologetically. “I’m sorry—I just remembered that newspaper article from a few years ago. Grown men brawling in Flourish and Blotts, my goodness. Oh, don’t look at me like that, Draco; I’m sure you can agree it was ridiculous. Anyway, the fact that Charlie and Bill have done something to help you will not sit well with those twins, or with the rest of them once they find out. The knowledge that Charlie and Bill acted at Remus and Kingsley’s behest is the main thing which has mollified Fred and George.”

“For now.”

“For now,” she agreed. “But I doubt they will keep quiet for long, regardless of who tries to convince them. I will be speaking with Kingsley later today and, though I cannot predict his response, I believe that ultimately his decision will be to apprise the innermost Order members of the full situation.”

“The full situation,” Draco repeated slowly, dread rising within him.

Andromeda nodded. “Yes. That includes our most recent projects, which extend far beyond the potioneering and healing practices that you and Theo were instructed to continue with.”

“They’ll also learn you’re sheltering five extra students.”

“Yes.”

“Totalling seven students, seven  _Slytherin_ students, many of whom have Death Eater ties.” Draco’s voice rose despite his attempts to remain calm. “Yes, I’m sure that’ll go  _fucking wonderfully_!”

“Seven is hardly an insignificant number, Draco,” Andromeda responded sharply. “If it hasn’t gone unnoticed at Hogwarts that there is not a  _single_ seventh-year Slytherin left in the castle now that  _you’ve_  intervened, well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle!”

“You'll be a— _what_?”

She ignored him. “The people who need to be told that nearly all of those seventh-years are now living here  _will be told_  whether you like it or not, Draco, because in your haste yesterday, you made things extraordinarily complicated for everybody!” She sighed in frustration and passed a hand over her eyes. “I said I would let Nymphadora take care of this, but do you understand, now? It is a lot easier to explain away a few missing sickles, but when you take an entire stack, people  _notice_.”

It wasn’t until this point that Draco realised that he’d well and truly fucked up.

“What will happen now?” he asked quietly.

Andromeda glanced at him, and some of the anger faded from her face. “I honestly can’t say. There are too many factors to consider.”

“But will they have to go back to Hogwarts?” he persisted.

She shook her head. “They cannot. Whatever the outcome, it is too dangerous for anyone to go back there now. They will need to remain within the safe houses.”

“Safe  _houses_?” Draco repeated.

“I will try my hardest to ensure you can all stay together, but such a thing may not be possible. It may be seen as… wiser… for you to be separated from one another. For the greater good, as it were.”

Draco’s face contorted with disgust. “But I’m the only Death Eater… _ex_ -Death Eater here. I hardly think it’s fair to label everyone as untrustworthy or dangerous.”

“Sometimes, when people attempt to seize control of their fear, the way that they interpret and justify and rationalise end up being reconstructed.”

“Well, it’s ridiculous to  _reconstruct_  the world so that all Slytherins are the enemy,” Draco pointed out.

“It’s called stereotyping, and people do it all the time, Draco. Most of the time it’s harmless enough. In more extreme situations we—” Andromeda swallowed and looked down at her wedding band. “—we end up with the likes of Muggle-born Registration Commissions… and Dark Lords.”

Draco closed his eyes, not knowing what to say.

“Do you understand now, Draco?” Andromeda said again. Her voice was strained, as if trying to keep her emotions in check. “I will never turn people away from this house. But at this point, I’m very concerned with how our situation looks from the outside, how other people could interpret it.”

“Will people suspect you’re… that you’re a turncoat like Severus?”

Andromeda’s voice faded to a murmur. “I don’t know.”

“We can tell them,” Draco insisted. “They’ve interviewed me already, and Theo too. If the rest hear Daphne and Astoria's story, then—”

“ _Draco_. I will not be asking Astoria to recount her rape before an audience.”

Draco's eyes widened. “Oh,  _shit_ —no, I meant that  _Daphne_  could tell them about her parents, and Rodolphus and Rabastan, and about Yaxley. Surely they’d realise that she and Astoria aren’t aligned with You-Know-Who. And maybe the others... though I haven't had a chance to find out why they decided to leave," he admitted.

“Have you considered that they may not wish to tell you, let alone the very people they’ve been brought up to despise?”

It was true. Draco couldn’t expect any of them to choose honesty, not when they didn’t know what it would cost. He couldn’t count on them saying any more than what they needed to in order to receive protection. And that couldn't even be guaranteed, since the Order had little choice but to keep them hidden for its own safety anyway. He couldn’t expect them to hold any trust for him, either; in December he’d simply been another one of Voldemort’s lackeys, and now it was April and he was involved in feats in the name of the Order.

“Maybe they won’t,” he said finally, “but maybe they will after I tell them everything. I’m going to do it; how I ended up here, why things changed for me.”

Surprise flashed through Andromeda's eyes. “That’s quite a decision.”

“Quite. They deserve to know. Because...” His right hand moved unconsciously to his left forearm. “Because if—if  _I’d_  known...”

“I understand,” Andromeda said, “but I imagine it won’t be easy, and doing so doesn’t mean they’ll choose to reciprocate. You and I—and likely your friends, too—we were raised by families who sought to preserve pride and reputation above all else. We were taught to consider vulnerability as weakness and openness as reckless stupidity. It’s hard to know what’s real and what isn’t when everyone around you is playing the same game.” She fixed him with a small smile. “But, if you can... if you can manage to  _step away_ from all of that, Draco, you may end up doing your friends a greater kindness than you can imagine.”

“I just want them to know where I stand now. I want them to understand why I’ve made the choices I have. I want them to realise that…” His face was heated with discomfort but he pushed through all the same. “I'm still a Malfoy, and I will always be by blood, but… but you and Tonks… I think of you as my family now.”

_When all of this is over, I will make sure that Mother is reunited with Andromeda, whether she likes it or not._

He couldn’t bear to look at her directly, but peering up through his lashes, he could see the pleasure in his aunt’s tear-bright eyes.

“I’m so proud of how far you’ve come, Draco,” she whispered. “Truly.”

Draco stared at his tightly clasped hands, uncomfortable with the praise.

They both remained quiet until Pansy entered the room a few minutes later and the atmosphere changed immediately.

Seeing Pansy up and about so early in the day was quite the surprise, as Draco knew she was very much  _not_  a morning person. There had of course been a few occasions over the years where it had been a necessity, and she’d never borne it well. It was apparent that she’d been awake for a while, Draco realised, knowing that she wouldn’t dare appear before partaking in her morning rituals of beautification. He eyed her feet—resolutely clad in black heels—with amusement; he knew how much Pansy loathed her height, how she hated people knowing just how short she was without her shoes to elevate her.

“Those aren’t your clothes.”

 _That_  was how she greeted him, nose wrinkled and tone accusing as she stopped beside him to eyeball his long-sleeved shirt and jeans.

“Such an astute observation, darling,” Draco drawled back, resisting the urge to self-consciously finger his attire. “Believe me when I say this is nothing compared to what they looked like prior to the Transfigurations.”

Pansy’s expression was deadpan as she raised her eyes to his. “You’ve already—” She shook her head in disbelief. “You are going to let me tend to your wardrobe. I can’t bear seeing you like this; you're like a nightmare, come to life. It’s just...  _not right_.”

“Good morning, Pansy,” Andromeda interjected, her tone warm with amusement at the girl’s dramatics.

Pansy turned towards her, smiling sweetly. “Good morning, Mrs—”

“Andromeda,” Draco interrupted firmly.

“Ah, if you do insist!” Pansy teased, giving Draco’s hair a much-undesired ruffle. “Good morning,  _Andromeda_.”

Draco rolled his eyes and lifted her hand away. He stood up, smoothing his hair back into place with his fingers. “Come on, you. I don’t know how you’re managing to be so chirpy  _without_  coffee, but—”

Pansy’s eyes brightened. “Coffee? Oh, yes please—I’m  _dying_.”

She allowed Draco to take her by the wrist and tug her in the direction of the kitchen. When they stopped in front of the kettle, however, her eyebrows drew together in confusion.

“ _We’re_  making coffee,” she realised. “This… this is a  _Muggle_  kettle, isn’t it?”

Draco held back his smile. “Yes, it is. I learned how to do use it, and now I’m going to show you.”

She blinked at him, astounded. “But—”

“You’ll be fine.”

“We have  _wands_.” She pulled hers out, as if to remind him of the fact.

“It’ll taste better this way.”

“But still, can’t the house elves take care of it?”

Unable to help himself, Draco grinned. “I’m afraid there aren't any house elves, Pans.”

“But everything is so...  _tidy_ ,” she whispered, though not quietly enough—Andromeda erupted with laughter. Pansy’s cheeks flushed with pink.

“Learning how to use Muggle appliances was quite the learning curve for me when I first left home,” Andromeda told her kindly. “But Draco’s right—the coffee  _does_ taste better without magic. He and Theo have done very well with learning to navigate the kitchen, so you're in safe hands. They very rarely cause explosions nowadays.”

“Those explosions were not my fault,” Draco insisted. “There are too many limitations to these Muggle contraptions. Why is allynum—”

“ _Aluminium_.”

“Yes, yes, but why is  _al-eh-min-ee-um_   _foil_ even a product on the market, anyway? It can’t even go in the microwave! They should have developed something more versatile by now, rather than so many variations of things with the same base purpose. I mean, they also have—”

“Oh Merlin, I can’t believe you’re rambling on about this  _again_.” Theo was grinning as he stepped through the doorway but then he saw Pansy and the smile abruptly vanished from his face.

“Good morning, Theo,” Andromeda said cheerfully, as if she had not noticed his changed disposition.

“Hello,” Theo returned quietly, dropping quickly into place at the table.

“I have no idea what you’re all talking about,” Pansy said to Draco under her breath as he finished leading her through the kettle-boiling procedure and introduced her to the refrigerator, “and I can’t believe you know so much about  _Muggle things_.”

“Well, I didn’t have much of an option when I came here,” Draco replied, pulling the milk out of the refrigerator. “I didn’t have a wand to use, you know.”

“You…” Pansy looked as if she wanted to ask more questions but the kitchen was hardly the place to do so, and particularly as some of the likely subjects were sitting nearby. She shook her head slightly and fell silent as they finished up.

Joining Theo at the table, Draco passed his friend the mug of tea he’d prepared during Pansy’s brief induction with kitchen appliances. Theo took it with a grateful—though somewhat embarrassed—smile, his eyes flicking quickly to Pansy, who was sipping at her own coffee fervently.

The dark-haired girl paused to assess Theo, whose face grew wary. After a moment, she turned to Draco and said scoldingly, “Even Nott is dressed better than you are!”

Theo looked down to regard his clothes, cheeks colouring.

“ _Theo_  had the liberty of bringing his belongings here,” Draco replied snippily, emphasising the other boy’s first name.

Andromeda shared a sly smile with Pansy. “You can tend to Draco’s things after breakfast, Pansy. You are  _very_  welcome.”

“But only until the meeting,” Draco interjected, though he was hardly displeased; Pansy’s expertise with clothing was unparalleled.

“Meeting?” Theo asked.

Draco nodded towards his aunt. “Andromeda suggested we all gather for a house meeting later this morning.”

“So I think we’ll leave the garden until tomorrow,” Andromeda added.

“Ah.” Theo glanced at Pansy again and then back down at his mug. “Yes, good idea.”

“Draco?”

Blaise was standing in the doorway to the dining room, watching him intently.

“Yes, Blaise?”

“May I speak with you? In private, if you please.”

The other boy’s face was solemn as he waited. Draco had expected a different arrival from him altogether: strutting and joviality, with a Greengrass—or two—on his arm. Neither girl was present, however.

Draco nodded, and went to join him.

 

 

 

“I’m surprised you managed to slip out of Greengrass’s clutches,” Draco drawled, once he and Blaise had settled themselves in Draco’s room. “She’s hardly been able to keep her hands off you since you got here. Not that you’re ever one to complain about too much attention.”

"Jealous, are you?"

"Relieved actually," Draco returned, choosing to be deliberately obtuse. "It keeps her away from me."

Blaise snorted. “I assume the two of you are as fond of each other as ever?”

Draco inclined his head. “Of course. She’s perfectly unpleasant.”

“Whereas you are an utterly agreeable fellow.”

Draco smirked. “Naturally.”

Their smiles fell away as, for a few moments, they eyed each other in silent contemplation.

Finally, Blaise leaned forward. “Daph said you’re an Order member now.”

“ _Daph_  is a gossip.”

“ _Draco_.”

“It is true, however.”

Blaise’s nose wrinkled and then he lowered his voice. “Silencing Charms.”

Draco eyed him evenly, resisting the urge to finger his tucked away wand. “You place them.”

This deviation in propriety seemed to confound the other boy; erecting such charms was always the host’s obligation, after all. Perhaps Blaise didn’t know about Draco’s magical limitations or he’d simply forgotten. More likely, however, he was being tested.

Draco leaned back in his chair and waited, expression aloof. Blaise's eyes locked on him. After a moment, the other boy raised his wand and cast the charms.

“Something you don’t want overheard?” Draco asked with affected nonchalance.

Blaise’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?”

“I might ask the same question of you. What would your mother say if she knew who you were consorting with?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Blaise said shortly, evoking much curiosity in Draco. “What would yours say?”

“She knows where I am.”

“And how about  _what_  you are?” Blaise’s eyes drifted to Draco’s concealed Dark Mark. “I know  _I’d_  like to know. It seems as if we’re all playing our little games of deception, but I’m particularly interested in yours. Are you on another assignment?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “If I was, would I tell you?”

“Point,” Blaise acknowledged. “You’ve spent the last couple of years trying your best to avoid me, after all.”

“Consider it a compliment.”

Aware that they were getting nowhere, Draco decided to shrug away his defences, and pushed up the sleeve of his shirt. Blaise’s reaction was subtle but the fascination in his eyes was clear.

“It used to burn when I first arrived,” he told Blaise, near conversationally. “It stopped after a while. I think He realised that I couldn’t come back to him… or perhaps that I  _wouldn’t_. I don’t think the reason would matter to him anymore; if I returned, I’d simply be killed.

“Do you remember the things we used to talk about, all those  _games_  you mentioned? We used to butt heads over the most ridiculous things. We spent all that time competing for the most influence, and deriding all the other Houses.”

“We did other things too,” Blaise commented with a wicked smile. “I’m offended that that seems to have slipped your mind.”

Understanding his implications—and recalling the previous night’s near-tryst with Pansy—Draco’s cheeks reddened. He ignored it. “I regret to say that our time together was more memorable for you than it was for me.”

Knowing the jest for what it was, Blaise’s grin widened all the more.

Draco did not smile. “But we were all just little fools, weren’t we?”

Though Blaise did not answer, the humour faded from his face.

“No, I’m not a Death Eater anymore,” Draco said. “Joining the Order was my choice.”

“So, do you fuck Muggles now?” Blaise asked crudely.

‘I still have standards’ was what Draco  _could_  have said, but he was trying not to be that person.

“Death Eaters fuck Muggles,” was what he said instead. “You  _do_  know that, right? All that talk of purity—”

“But that’s all about power,” Blaise interrupted. “Surely you’re not insinuating it makes them Muggle-lovers.”

“ _Of course_  it’s about power,” Draco snapped. “Power and control and dominance and  _winning_. And in most cases, that’s pretty much the best they’ll get. All those murmurs about glory and opportunity and honour… they were all  _bullshit_. The privileges are few and temporary at best. No matter how much favour you gain with Him,  _everyone_ is expendable; it’s just a matter of waiting for your own downfall to come.”

Blaise blinked, then said. “Salazar, Draco. That was a bleak little speech.”

Draco shrugged.

“So you’ve decided to pursue vigilante work,” Blaise commented. “Why are you suddenly interested in being a hero?”

“Did you know that there’s people hiding in the Room of Requirement because it’s no longer safe for them to be seen in the castle? People from every other house are staying there… except for Slytherin.”

“Of course, because we’re all on the Dark Lord’s side; everyone knows that,” Blaise responded sardonically.

“Which is why Theo and I wanted to provide a way out for those who didn’t fit that mould. That's why we came to get  _you_.” Draco sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “After yesterday’s debacle though, I’m not sure I’ll be able to convince everyone to do it again."

“Seems a lot of work, and for questionable gain,” said Blaise. “I suppose that’s why my family are reputed for not involving ourselves during wartime. Did you even consider lying low, or are you trying to prove something by acting the redeemed malefactor?”

“Lying low lost it's appeal. I might not be able to avoid Azkaban for the things I’ve done, but I can at least work towards restoring my family name. It's my role as the heir. For all of Father’s boasting, our legacy lost precedence with him a long time ago.”

Blaise let out a low whistle. “I never thought I’d see the day you criticise the great Lucius Malfoy.”

“My perspective on things has changed a lot,” Draco replied heavily. “You’ll hear more later on, I expect. Andromeda’s having a meeting and I’ve decided to use the time to… come clean, as it were.”

“A Draco Malfoy tell-all exclusive?” Blaise quipped. “How daring.” He stretched his arms above his head. “Now, all of this banter has made me rather peckish. Call us a house elf, would you?”

Draco smiled impishly.

Some half an hour later he'd been dragged back inside his room by a terrifyingly eager Pansy. As he watched her yank shirts from his drawers, it suddenly occurred to him that, for all the talking they'd done, Blaise had told him next to nothing.

 

 

 

At mid-morning they all gathered in the dining room. Andromeda provided them with an overview of the house and the different rules and expectations they would need to uphold during their stay, and answered—or evaded—the wide range of questions she received.

And then it was Draco’s turn to speak.

Draco took a deep breath and looked around the table. As a child, he’d always enjoyed being the centre of attention. Ever since he’d received the Mark, however, things had been different. Blending in had become a survival tactic, a way to avoid the scrutiny of his fellow students and later, the throngs of Death Eaters who frequented the manor in their master’s wake.

“I suppose you’re all wondering why I’ve aligned myself with the Order.”

That seemed to rouse everybody’s attention. Astoria looked up swiftly, Tracey sat up straighter, and Pansy let go of the napkin she had been twisting and folding. A look of mild surprise crossed Theo’s features, but he sent Draco a small smile of encouragement. Andromeda, blessedly well-timed, deposited three full teapots and a platter of muffins in the middle of the table.

“Pansy.” The dark-haired girl gazed at him expectantly. “I did say I’d tell you everything. I think it’s for the best that everyone hears this.”

There was so much to say, especially in the face of all of the rumours and theories which had accumulated over the years.

“I hardly need to tell you that I bear the Dark Mark. Burt perhaps not all of you know when or how that came to be. The Dark— _You-Know-Who_ gave me the Mark in exchange for my loyalty during the summer before sixth-year. I was also given an assignment…”

 

 

 

_September, 1996_

_He hadn’t meant for her to see._

_Pansy would have thought it strange if he’d fucked her with his shirt on; fortunately, she hadn’t complained when he’d doused the lights the night before. Regrettably, he’d forgotten about the morning light, and he had taken her tendency to sleep in for granted. He should have expected that she’d try and sneak a glimpse of his forearm._

_In the midst of her curiosity, she’d clearly forgotten just how lightly he slept._

_Eyes snapping open, he reached out and seized the wrist of the hand which was in the middle of its attempt to drag his sleeve back down._

_Pulling her gaze from his exposed skin, Pansy’s eyes widened innocently. Draco was having none of it, however, and after she realised this she ceased the act, her lips curling in a smirk._

_“So that’s what you meant on the Express when you said you might be moving on to bigger and better things,” she said smugly, before letting out a yelp of shock as Draco threw her backwards against the mattress and pinned her down by the arms._

_“Why the hell can’t you mind your own business?” he demanded. “Do you_ want _me to get expelled?”_

_“Cersei—of course I don’t, you idiot! I just wanted to know for sure; it’s not as if I’m not going to tell anybody!”_

_He shook his head firmly. “That’s not enough to convince me, Pans; I need more than just take your word."_

_“Ouch—you’re_ hurting _me, you shit,” she grouched, wincing as he tightened his grip all the more, fingers digging into her supple flesh. “Alright, alright! I’ll make a Vow. Will_ that _satisfy you?”_

_He let go and rocked back on his heels, giving her space to sit up._

_“_ Fuck _, Draco,” she admonished softly as she bent to examine the fingerprint-shaped blemishes on her arms, “calm down a little, would you?”_

_“I’d say my reaction is rather warranted, actually,” he snapped defensively. “Getting kicked out of Hogwarts for having the Mark is the last thing I need right now.”_

_“It hurts my feelings a little that you think I’d rat on you,” she replied petulantly. “You don’t trust me, darling?”_

_Draco wasn’t interested in her games, not today. “Of course I don’t trust you. Now, hurry up and get out your wand.”_

 

 

 

When Draco had returned to school for seventh-year, his characteristically cocky facade was gone. The act had already begun dissipating the year when he'd been handed an insurmountable mission. In the aftermath, it was completely eviscerated; Draco no longer cared about impressing people or humiliating Hufflepuffs or belittling his lessers. He had a new task to concern himself with: aiding his comrades, gauging the suitability of prospective followers, and collecting information. Ultimately, he needed to survive, needed to ensure his family wouldn’t be killed as a result of his own stupidity and cowardice. Perhaps his father was still concerned with regaining favour and status, but Draco’s priorities were much more straightforward.

It was fortunate that, although he’d grown apathetic towards the treatment and privileges he’d formerly prized, it was easy to remain a dominating presence within the school. The rumours which circulated about him took care of that well enough, and the Carrows recruiting him for detention duties helped as well. There was a tide of voices which labelled him a coward, but the ones which came from his own house quickly died away when they saw his portrayal of stringent dedication. This was a very fortunate thing, since Draco could hardly continue to use his father’s reputation now that it was in tatters.

He told the group at the table about the reality of those detention sessions and about the extra ‘practice’ he'd been subjected to, how he'd had to grow out of using the Imperius as a crutch. He told them about being called back to Malfoy Manor for training sessions and spontaneous interrogations. He told them about how it felt to be enslaved to a madman and to come to the realisation that he was backing destruction—his own included—rather than deliverance. He told them what it was like to become a part of the Order despite his still somewhat-bigoted views of the world, and how the decision to protect oneself was more worthwhile than sitting back and completely surrendering control of one’s fate. He mentioned—as he had to Blaise—his desire to further his family name, and how this did not need to be synonymous with his father's ambitions.

There were things that he didn’t speak of, despite the implication that he would. He didn’t tell them about pouring his heart out to Moaning Myrtle, or about crying himself to sleep on the manor balcony, or about that one wretched night when he’d learned that one cannot cast the Killing Curse on oneself. He didn’t tell them about Harry’s soft hair or the feel of his fingers or the charmed galleon tucked in his pocket. He kept quiet about his wand; he would continue to do so until after Andromeda had spoken to Kingsley. For the most part, however, he disclosed everything which came to mind, and tried to ignore how absurd and wrong it felt to speak so plainly.

Apart from during those desolate encounters with Myrtle—which he wasn’t sure counted—Draco couldn’t recall ever speaking with such openness, not to Theo or Andromeda, not even whilst sending messages to Harry. It was discomfiting and a part of him was certain that his foolishness would soon be used against him, that he’d be taunted or coerced or rejected. Yet, at the same time, he felt somewhat liberated and grateful to be finally saying things he’d kept buried away for so long. And perhaps, perhaps Andromeda was right—perhaps some good would come of speaking so candidly. Perhaps it would encourage honesty in some of the others as well.

When he ran out of things to say, he simply stopped and looked around at his silent peers. Their expressions were varied: speculative, uncomfortable, approving—that was Theo and Andromeda—and utterly, utterly unreadable.

Tracey was the first to speak.

“Thank you...  _Draco_.” Draco’s first name sounded strange upon her tongue; he couldn’t remember her ever using it before. “I think that… yes.” She nodded decisively, seemingly to herself. “Yes, I think I’ll have my turn now.”

“ _Tracey_ ,” Pansy said in a low voice, “are you sure that you—”

“Yes I’m sure. I’m  _not_  ashamed, Pansy,” Tracey protested, though the shakiness of her voice threatened to betray her. “I want to.”

“Okay then,” Pansy conceded quietly, but the uncertainty on her face lingered.

Daphne was watching the girls’ interaction with a displeased frown, evidently bothered that Pansy knew things which she did not. Draco expected some kind of snappy comment, but the blonde remained rigid and quiet, lips tight.

Tracey’s eyes darted around the group before fixing themselves on the table. “So… you all know that my parents are unmarried,” she began.

Everyone nodded, save for Andromeda. Tracey’s father had been betrothed to another witch when he had met Violetta Davis. Despite having a family of his own, he still remained a part of Tracey’s life; she travelled to Malaysia several times a year to visit him.

“My mother  _was_  married though, once upon a time.”

Daphne’s head jerked up. “When did this happen?” she asked, surprise clear in her voice.

“Eighty-five,” Tracey responded softly. “Apart from Pansy—who I only told recently—I’ve never told anyone.”

She grew quiet then and a few puzzled glances were exchanged within the group.

“I think—she doesn’t like to talk about it, but I think Mother was happy being married to Paul. She wouldn’t have divorced him, if it hadn’t been for Grandfather.”

“He didn’t like Paul?” Astoria asked.

“That’s one way to put it,” Tracey responded. “Apparently, Mother and I were on the verge of being disowned. Grandfather couldn't stand it that Paul—” She let out a nervous laugh. “Well, Paul’s a Muggle.”

“Your mother married a  _Muggle_?” Daphne repeated, her tone tinged with incredulity. “Why?”

“Because she wanted to,” Tracey replied uneasily. “They were in love.”

Blaise shook his head. “I can’t believe anyone—”

“Let her speak,” Pansy interrupted warningly, her eyes cold. “Go on, Trace.”

Tracey, evidently discomfited by Blaise and Daphne’s reactions, appeared reluctant to continue, but did so all the same. “They—they had a son. His name’s Benjamin. He’s, uh, twelve now, actually,” she admitted before adding in a strained voice, “I suppose I’ve been keeping it quiet for a while, eh?”

Daphne bristled. “I beg your pardon? He’s  _twelve_? Cersei, Tracey; I can understand how ashamed you must feel, what with your mother making such…  _poor choices_ —” Tracey jerked. “—but I can’t understand you hiding the fact that you have a  _brother_ from your supposed friends.”

 _She can’t understand Tracey hiding it from_ her _, is what she really means_ , Draco thought dryly.

“I—I’m not embarrassed about Paul or Ben, Daph. We just—well, it’s a sensitive topic, so Mother decided it was best if we kept quiet. Paul has custody of Ben, anyway—he hasn’t got any magic—and...” She shrugged awkwardly. “If it was common knowledge, the business would suffer.”

Her mother ran an Apothecary in Knockturn Alley alongside Caradoc Davis, Tracey’s maternal grandfather. It wasn’t necessary to explain that a large chunk of the family’s customer base would be lost if people thought the Davis family were blood-traitors.

Perhaps, if different people had been in attendance, there may have been comments regarding the callousness of prioritising a business. No such opinions were voiced by those present, however. Most of them could commiserate—or at least understand—the Davis family’s choice to keep such relations secret—they were  _Muggles_ , after all.

“In the end, while I managed to keep it hidden from all of you, I wasn’t as careful as I was should have been,” Tracey told them, her voice tight. “I was  _stupid_.”

“You weren’t stupid,” Pansy argued immediately. “It could have happened to anyone.”

“No,” Tracey insisted, blinking back tears. “ _I was stupid_. Carrow,  _Amycus_  Carrow, he—he found out.”

“How did that happen?” Andromeda asked gently.

“Something I wrote in a letter,” she whispered. “Before it occurred to me that our mail was getting checked. But he—well, I assume he went against whatever their protocol is.” Her eyes snapped to Draco as if seeking confirmation. “He called me to his office and force-fed me  _Veritaserum_.”

Draco frowned. That wasn’t at all how they usually operated. “Alecto wasn’t there? Severus?” The answer seemed apparent already.

She shook her head. “Only him. And… he learned  _everything_.” She let out a gasp and covered her hand with her mouth.

“Tracey, you don’t have to—” Pansy tried again.

Tracey’s eyes were pressed closed, tears running down her cheeks. She shook her head stubbornly.

“I told him I’d do anything. So, he—”

Astoria stood up suddenly, her face pale. “I don’t think I can—I’m sorry,” she said, banging into the corner of the table in her hurry. “I’m sorry, I just—” She stumbled hurriedly from the room.

“Oh—bollocks,” Blaise whispered to no one in particular.

Daphne was standing now too, her face pale and troubled. “Trace—I’m sorry, I have to—”

“Yes, of course,” Tracey answered, though her eyes were wide and confused. “Of course. I didn’t know that—”

Daphne had already dashed away though, so it was Andromeda who replied. “You weren’t to know,” she said softly. “I’ll go and check on her.”

“Should I come too?” Tracey asked hesitantly.

Andromeda shook her head as she rose. “I think you’re best staying here for now. Shall I bring you back a Calming Potion?”

Tracey attempted a watery smile and shook her head. “No, thank you.”

The group had dwindled down to five. They sat in silence for a few minutes, all too uncomfortable to engage in small talk.

“I don’t understand,” Tracey eventually admitted.

Pansy also seemed unsure of what had just transpired. Blaise, in comparison, did not; perhaps Daphne had already told him, or he’d simply been able to make his own deductions.

“She’s—I’m sure Daphne will talk to you about it, later,” Theo said tentatively. “Don’t blame yourself.”

Tracey looked unconvinced but didn’t argue.

Andromeda returned some ten minutes later with Daphne in tow. Daphne looked as if she had been recently crying, though her cheeks were dry.

“She’s sleeping now,” Andromeda told them all quietly.

“It’s wasn’t your fault, Trace,” Daphne added. “Tori… she just… she couldn’t bear to hear.”

“I didn’t realise, or I would never—”

“Yes, I know. She knows, too.” Daphne sat herself down and curled an arm around Tracey’s shoulders. “Do you still want to continue? You can, if you want to.”

A part of Draco hoped that she would say no. Hearing what Amycus Carrow had deigned to do in his position of power and bearing witness to more tear-filled confessions was something he honestly wished he could avoid. But he also knew that it was important to hear Tracey’s story, to learn the depths of his former comrades’ inhumanity.

Tracey wiped her eyes and nodded. “Yes, I want to. Please. I don’t want you all to—to misunderstand.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” Andromeda answered, and poured more tea.

“He blackmailed me,” Tracey said dully. “He learned about Ben and Paul but he said that if I could—if I could  _please_  him well enough—then he’d consider keeping the information to himself.”

“When, Trace?” Daphne asked stiffly, her face tight. “When did this happen?”

“Just—just after Halloween. I didn’t want to—I swear! But… but I didn’t know what else to do,” Tracey admitted in a small voice. “I don’t care that my brother and Paul are Muggles. I still  _love_ them.”

Blaise shook his head in disgust. “Carrow's a sick bastard.”

“Oh Trace,” Daphne soothed, pulling her friend even closer. “You’re here. You’re okay now.”

Tracey shook her head in objection. “No—I’m not. I’m  _not_  okay. For a while I wasn’t sure if it’d be better to just stay and keep on… you know. But it got too dangerous, and by that point, I didn’t care how I got out; I just needed to get  _away_ , to  _leave_. Except… now that I’m gone, there’s nothing to stop him from going after them, is there?”

Draco didn’t want to have to be the one to tell Tracey that despite what he'd implied, nothing would have convinced Carrow to leave her Muggle family be.

“You had to protect yourself.” Pansy insisted, her voice thick with emotion. “Your family wouldn’t have wanted you to keep risking your life for them.”

Tracey bit her lip and nodded reluctantly. “I know, I know. I’m sure… I  _hope_  Mother worked out that our letters were being monitored. I couldn’t exactly say it to her outright, and I haven’t dared to go home during any of the breaks. But I can’t imagine that she wouldn’t have done  _something_  to protect them; she and Paul are still civil, even if they aren't together."

“Pansy’s right,” Draco said slowly. “But, Tracey, I’m sorry to have to say this: Carrow… he doesn’t bargain. Anything he might have promised you—”

“I know,” Tracey said quietly, to his surprise, “and I knew it then as well, but what other option did I have? And now…” She looked down once more.

Blaise was watching Tracey intently; he seemed to have come to some conclusion. Then, he said, “Tracey... there was another reason you had to leave, wasn’t there? It wasn't just that you wanted to get away from Carrow."

Any resolve that Tracey had left crumpled in that moment; her face fell and she began to sob violently. Immediately, Pansy went to comfort her. Tracey made a few attempts to speak but could not calm herself enough to do so. Eventually, she pushed herself away from the two girls and got to her feet.  She drew her hand up slowly, placing it flat against her abdomen.

It was obvious now why Tracey had declined the Calming Potion.

“She’s pregnant,” Pansy said quietly. “Nearly five months.”

Draco’s teeth sank into his lip hard enough that he tasted blood.

For a long time, no one could find the words to say anything at all.

 

 

 

When Tonks eventually arrived, she was still practically vibrating with rage from the day before. The group at the table was smaller by this point; Daphne had taken Tracey to see Astoria. Tonks had taken no time to engage in pleasantries; she’d seized Draco by the arm and marched him away from his lunch and into his bedroom for “a chat”. Said chat had mostly involved a demonstration of her impressive vocal chords; she'd yelled extensively with hardly a pause to breathe. Her stance was unyielding: there would be no more rescue missions.

“ _Come on_ , Tonks.”

“No!” his cousin had banged her fist down on the table, her frenzy of crimson curls bouncing. “The decision is  _final_ , Draco.”

“So, so you’re just going to... to write off the future of innocent people because I made a  _mistake_? You  _do_  remember what happened to Astoria right? Perhaps you should ask Tracey how well  _she’s_  been treated this year.”

“Don’t,” Tonks had warned. “Don’t try and manipulate me, Draco, because it just won’t work. It’s a hard fact, but not everyone can be saved; I had to learn that a long time ago and it’s about time you did too.”

Draco had wanted to complain that he was only seventeen and shouldn’t  _have_  to learn such things. But there was no point in trying to plead for a childhood which his lineage had already forced him to forsake.

“Do you know what Fred and George had to do after you decided to deviate from the plan? They went and blew up the  _Quidditch Pitch_.”

He hadn’t known. It had been a day, and no one had mentioned a thing about it.

“Why would they—”

“They had to do  _something_ to draw attention away from our operation, Draco.”

“But they like Quidditch,” he had said stupidly.

“A Quidditch pitch can be rebuilt. They did it to prevent you from being captured or killed… despite their personal feelings for you, they still wanted the mission to succeed.”

 _Blasted Weasleys_. He hoped it would be an age before he saw those twins again. It was a shame that it could not be.

It was utterly apt, of course, that Potterwatch was due to air that night. Draco listened as always, though his jaw was tense as Fred and George discussed an act of terrorism which had been committed at Hogwarts by an ‘unknown party’. As a result, additional Dementors were to be stationed around the school’s perimeter, they’d reported, before reverberating some of their past advice about practicing the Patronus Charm.

He still didn’t have a memory powerful enough to conjure a Patronus, Draco realised, as his eyelids began to grow heavy.

Was it even possible to attain such a memory in times like these, when he was separated from his mother and privy to the dark truths of his friends? He wasn’t moronic, of course; he’d already known that the Death Eaters were hardly beacons of virtue, even if once upon a time, he’d been able to find ways to justify their actions. But the recent disclosures of his friends had caused him to feel as if he’d emerged from some kind of fog of naivety. Unforgivable curses, torture, death—they’d all been constants in the life he’d taken on after his father’s imprisonment, but other elements of his former-comrades’ depravity had managed to elude him.

Astoria had been raped, and what Tracey had put herself through practically was too. Daphne had been deemed Yaxley’s chattel, and Theo had been brutalised his whole life.

_The people who I thought superior, they did these things. My friends are all pure-bloods, but even that didn’t change their fate._

As he lay there in his bed feeling repulsed, the worst thought came to him yet.

_If Mother had never sent me here, I may have eventually been asked to do what my uncles did. The consequence of refusing would have been a slowly drawn out death. What would I have done in the end?_

It would have to be a Dreamless night, after all.

He opened a vial and downed it quickly, welcoming the nothingness like an old friend.

The next day was better than the previous one from the outset; Draco was drawn out of sleep by a message from Harry. Somewhat drowsy, pulled his wand out from beneath his pillow and tapped the coin to enlarge it.

For the first time, there was no question for him to answer and prove his identity, just three words which had the effect of instantly obliterating his stuporous state.

**_It's close, Draco._ **

_What's close?_ He wondered, before asking Harry the same.

_**We'll be having beers before you know it.** _

A flurry of emotions spiralled through him, his stomach leaping and lurching and sinking and somersaulting and dissolving into butterflies seemingly all at once.

 _Stop it_ , he tried to chide himself. _G_ _ryffindors aren't realists, they're idealists._ You _at least should have more sense._

Another message came before he could respond.

_**I'll even buy the first round.** _

"Fuck you, Harry," Draco whispered to the coin. "Stop making me hope for things. It's not fair."

He didn't say that, of course. It was much easier to just play along.

**_I'll hold you to that, Potter._ **

Shaking his head, Draco placed the coin on his bedside table and left the room.

 

 

 

Andromeda’s prediction had been correct; there would be an Order meeting on Sunday, and it would be held at Almach Cottage. The presence of all of the innermost members would be requested. As it was Wednesday, they had several days to prepare at least, though Draco still felt the occasion bode disaster.

“I think he and Remus are preparing to announce something,” Andromeda told Draco and Theo in the privacy of her bedroom. “I have the impression that this meeting will be about more than your little side-project.”

“Any idea of what it could be?” Theo asked.

“Not anything specific,” Andromeda replied. “It may be about a new mission, or some information they’ve received. It could be more major, or something trifling. But I could also be wrong; as I said, it was merely an impression.”

“Well, I for one hope you’re right,” Draco said. “Anything which detracts from us is very welcome, in my opinion.”

“We’re doing the right thing today, at least,” Theo declared with a smile, as he waved the list of ingredients Andromeda had handed to him.

“Oh yes, we’re such good little ex-miscreants,” Draco quipped as the two of them strolled out. “We’re foraging for healing potion ingredients and doing the _right thing_.”

“Excuse me, but _I_ was never a miscreant,” Theo objected.

“Oh really? Never been a bad boy for Longbottom?”  Draco regretted his rejoinder instantly as Theo gave a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows.  “No Theo, I don’t want to know. I _really_ —”

“All that digging in the gardens has really built up Neville’s strength. Sweet Salazar, does that man know how to use a paddle.”

“Okay… you know what we should do now, Theo? Not talk.”

Theo grinned slyly as Draco shook his head and increased his pace.

Collecting ingredients from the outside had remained one of Draco’s favourite jobs. He enjoyed getting away from the house, and Theo similarly appreciated the opportunity to scrounge around for supplies in the fresh air. Bill no longer accompanied them, which meant they could explore the surrounds at their own leisure, and not experience the uneasiness which came with knowingly being monitored from above.

The greatest frustration came with not being able to source what they needed, however. There were times where they simply had to give up the search and return home emptyhanded. While Andromeda was trying not to show concern they knew that sometime soon, she’d need to accept the risk and venture out to make purchases.

“Look at you, you clumsy oaf,” Theo taunted as they re-entered the house later that afternoon, “your arse is all crusted with mud.”

Draco laughed over his shoulder and strode towards the dining room. “Well of course it is, you tosser! You’re the one who made me slip.”

“Pansy will hit you with a jinx if she sees that you’ve ruined the trousers she crafted you.”

“It’s alright; you’ll counter it if I can’t.”

“Except I might not feel like it. I might be _really_ busy.”

“Ah, but what if I—” Draco froze in the doorway, conversation forgotten.

Having little other choice, Theo stopped behind him. He poked Draco sharply between his shoulder blades. “Care to keep moving? Draco?” Then he noticed what had stopped Draco in his tracks and gently pushed the blonde forward.

Throat dry, Draco stepped into the dining room.

He was filthy and dishevelled and shockingly slender. But he was there, and he was perfect.

“Hi.”

Harry’s lips curved in a lopsided smile.

 


End file.
